Going on 15

Weeks that is. At least in terms of pregnancy.

Which means that my first trimester is officially over, although, unofficially, the nausea still bothers me every now and then, granted it is no longer to the extent that I would actually throw up blood. So far, the pregnancy has been both worse and better than I expected. But while there are a lot of things I still miss (and will continue to miss until the baby is born) things are definitely looking up.

At 14 weeks and 5 days, here is my pregnancy update:

What I miss...

1) Obviously, the game, which, because four out of the six people involved (including God himself) are smokers, is just a big no-no for me in my condition right now. Just this week, Andrew created the digital art for our characters and it made me feel both proud (hey, I didn't know my character and my shard was that pretty!) and sad (I really do miss gaming).

Art courtesy of Andrew Drilon (I hope I'm not committing some social, grievous mistake by posting something a friend of mine did for the game, but I just felt Andrew did such a terrific job at making these masterpieces that I can't help but blog about it. )

2) Coffee. Once upon a time, I fell in love with Mocha Java (from Great Taste) and I thought that love was reciprocated. Through the years however, Mocha Java became more distant with me and became less and less available. Until one day, Mocha Java just simply disappeared. For awhile, I was lost. Somehow, I picked up the pieces, got involved with Coffee House's Cappuccino and I thought I had moved on. And then I found out I was pregnant. And then, Mocha Java came back. And then my doctor said I can't have coffee.

It's a sad, sad world, I tell you.

3) My friends. Though they've been bending over backward to accommodate my suddenly healthy lifestyle, it's just not the same hanging out with your smoker friends knowing they will start to fidget in an hour or so, trying to compensate for the non-existent cigarette in their mouths by eating candies by the boxes. And while I know that they all love me (and my husband) to bits, I sometimes don't know anymore if we've (hubby and I) have over-extended our welcome by staying too late when every minute I'm there, I'm essentially depriving them with something they arguably need more than water. So now I feel we're caught in the awkward stage - I'm trying to be polite and trying not to inconvenience them too much but at the cost of not spending as much time with them as I am used to. The real tragedy here is that my husband, great guy that he is, has decided to stay with me when, the truth of it is, he could actually spend time with them, game with them, do stuff with them (albeit without me) because he is not bound by the no-smoke-shall-reach-thy-nostril rule.

What's Great About 14 onwards....

1) The nausea and heartburn has let up. I know I've been whining about this incessantly, but the all consuming nausea and heartburn (made worse that I'm actually hyper acidic even prior to my pregnancy) had been so bad that I just wanted to crawl into a blanket and stay there forever. What's worse, when I did walk around, I hardly had any sense of fashion, my hair was a mess and I was pale with hormonal zits all over my face, making my already battered self esteem plummet even further down the depths of nauseating despair. All these made me walk slower and with a slouch, face down (you should ask Alex when you see him about how I walked, he does a pretty hilarious impersonation if I do say so myself). Now, either I've gotten used to my pale, hormonal zitted face, but I think I've started to look better. And while I'm not exactly skipping towards a rainbow, I'm actually walking at more or less normal pace towards some destination. And of course, I've started to actually comb my hair.

2) My breasts have grown from a 36 to a 40. And while this was not actually an occurrence that strictly happened in my 14th week, I am beginning to see the fashionable opportunities with increased breast size. I'd be deliriously happy if I go down to a 38 after the pregnancy, but friends have said this is not that case. Oh well, enjoy them while I have them.

3) My belly is now a pregnancy belly. Prior to this, I keep inspecting my stomach and instead of seeing an unborn child, I just keep seeing the donuts I shouldn't have eaten at lunch time. I didn't look pregnant, just, well, fat. Now, it definitely looks like a pregnancy belly so that people actually look at you and say Congratulations, instead of trying to hide the "Oh-my-god-she's-grown-fat" look from their eyes.

What I'm thankful for...

1) My husband. Through out the horror of my existence in December, he has been funny and patient and kind and firm and mean and persuasive and determined and optimistic when he needed to be. Even now, he takes such great care of me, that I often feel that I'm letting him down when I can't help but throw up. He's been wonderful and wonderful. I don't know what I did to deserve a husband like him.

2) I didn't actually lose my temper as much as I thought I would. In fact, a lot of people have voiced their fears to both me and Alex about my mood swings, thinking, not without basis, that I was a fairly temperamental person to begin with, baby or no baby. But the sudden bouts of illogical anger or even tantrums did not occur. The only times I got angry with Alex, in fact, was when he, upon sensing that something is wrong with me, would badger me with questions when all I want to do is sit still, not move, not speak, just letting the pain die down. In those instances, I get so annoyed that I actually get enough adrenalin to lose my temper and tell him to leave me alone before I crawl back to my own pocket of despair. But those instances were rare. For the most part, we hardly had any fights nor arguments, to a point I'm actually beginning to miss them. Alex says not to worry though. He thinks its just the nausea that keeps me too tired to be temperamental and that soon in the second trime, we'll both be back to normal.

3) Jelly Tongue and Crushed Ice and Plasil. All of which are used to keep me from throwing up. The Jelly Tongue in particular, a frozen apple flavored gelatin available in most stores, has the added benefit of tinting lips a delicious color of red, which would have been useful for my self esteem had I the skill to apply it more evenly.

So that's it. Supposedly, this second trimester is the best three months I'll get during the pregnancy, so here's to hoping.

And to all my patient friends, Mocha Java and beloved characters, I'm almost back.

I'm almost back.

The Baby Moves!

Today was supposed to be a bad day. First of all, it's Friday (and recently, Fridays have become depressing for me since hubby and I no longer do what we usually do on Fridays, but that's another story); second, the week had been so horrible in the nausea and throwing up front that last night, I was actually vomiting blood (which is, thankfully, just gross and not life threatening); third, there's tons of work to do and yet despite those, I have to take the entire morning off to go see the doctor for my monthly check up.

The morning itself did not start well. I could hardly force myself to eat, I was nauseous, I had no energy and all through out Alex was hurrying me (and pushing me) so that we could actually meet our doctor's appointment. The night before, I barely had enough good sleep with my stomach churning and churning so by the time we got to the hospital, I was already tired.

And then I had my ultrasound. And I saw it - the most wonderful thing in the world. Our baby moved! (And, well, kept moving - according to the doctor, malikot ang bata.) Alex had this big smile on his face, and I was near tears. The last time we saw our baby, he/she was just a tiny (unmoving) blob. Now, the child has limbs (which he/she uses to propel himself into various positions) and looks more like a baby than a fetus. It was such a great moment, that hearing the child's heartbeat an hour later, seemed anti-climactic.

Just remembering how the baby moved in the ultra sound, makes me want to break into song - never mind that I'm still nauseous.

It's a great way to start 2008.

Serendipity

If you guys have time, please do check out my story (as well as the other stories - see, I'm not so selfish ) in the 3rd issue of Serendipity*. It's my first story published abroad (theoretically).

Unfortunately, my forays into long titles have made my title the smallest to read, but please do take the time to find it and read it. And, if the voting system is out, please share your views on what you think of my story.

*Serendipity is a UK based on-line magazine that specializes in magical realism and light fantasy.

Plotting December

After a rush of LitCritter deadlines in the past few months, Dean gave us a break of sorts and announced that our next LitCritter Writing Challenge will be on December, with the actual challenge being to write a "plot-ty" (plot heavy) story. Unfortunately for me, plot is one of my weaknesses. This, despite growing up on such plot heavy masterpieces like Master of the Game by S. Sheldon and the plethora of spy-conspiracy novels of R. Ludlum.

What's even worse, of all the LitCritters, I take the longest time to craft a story. Unlike Andrew and Nikki, that, given a week (I daresay for Andrew, even less), they can come up with a competent piece of fiction that could be crafted into a great story given another few days; or unlike the two pigs (and I say this with the purest of intentions, referring to their Chinese Zodiac signs), namely my husband and Vinnie, where plot comes easy as Sunday morning and they could whip up something interesting and exciting within moments of just thinking about it, I tend to take my time crafting something and my approach is more like a sculptor than an artist wherein I batter my story into some cohesive and hopefully understandable shape as opposed to creating something from a blank slate.

And so now, I'm worried. I've been going through my old files, looking for some plot driven idea, and even started on a conceit or two and found myself incredibly bored. Or, hitting my infamous metaphorical wall. Most of the dead stories I've posted here, I concede, could be construed, if you squint hard enough, as plotty. But there's a reason why they're dead - I just don't have the heart to finish them anymore, having decided that the story is crap and not worth revisiting.

I'm tempted to try magical realism again, if only because, sa dami siguro ng nangyayari doon, hindi mo masasabing hindi siya plotty. And if I do, it would seem that I try this style at least once a year. Last year, I wrote a story entitled Wishcatcher based on what I thought magical realism was about (which is mostly reading GGM's works and Dean's works). It failed horribly. Now, I don't know if I've matured enough to try it again, knowing what I know (Dean gave us LitCritters a two hour seminar on magical realism after I submitted the story and my reaction was - that was what I was trying to do?! Good God!). But still the old fear creeps up that I will fail again. And while I have tried not to be obvious about it, having not submitted a good story in all the three recent deadlines for the LitCritters has hurt my confidence horribly, making me think twice (and thrice, and more) about my abilities as a writer, which subsequently forced me to revert back to the bad habit of over editing.

I know it sounds like I'm whining. But one of the things I love about blogging is that it allows me to face my fears and my concerns in a logical manner. And right now, after hearing some bad news about a particular story, this is my fear. That really, I can't write and everything else was just a fluke. Unspectacular flukes at that.

I know that after this blog, I will go back to writing my stupid plotty story for December. And I know I will never, ever, ever (ever) show how afraid I am about failure again. I know that, insecurities aside, I'll just keep writing, because that's just who I am. And I know, that come December, even if I fail, I will pick myself up and smile and take all the constructive criticism and move on.

But for now, I think I'll allow myself some moments to be afraid.

Dead Story: Redemption City

Redemption City. Legend has it, it was built by priests and nuns as a sanctuary of Christianity for those traveling to the New Frontier. Nowadays, people travel to Redemption with redemption the farthest thing in their minds. It’s a haven for criminals, prostitutes, gamblers and basically anyone else who wants to run away from horror of their lives.

But that’s not the reason why you’re here. You did not travel by coach and then by train and then by caravan, and again by coach, enduring the cloying heat, a highway robbery and the clinging smell of horse dung, dust and old leather to run away from your problems. You came here to solve it. And the answer to all your problems goes by the name of Buck Weston.

You take out a small mirror from your reticule and try to compose yourself. You feel tired and dusty and your petticoats are dirty from the sweat of your legs. You think this is no way for a lady to be seen, but then again, you’re no lady. You are, however, a widow, and for your late husband’s sake, you try to keep a modicum of decency. You fix your bonnet, tuck a curl behind your ear and pat your nose before putting the small mirror back. You will make your late husband proud of how you look if not with how you act.

Finally, the coach stops. You've been wanting to look out ever since the driver announced arrival at Redemption proper but you held yourself back. Though you have never seen Redemption, you have an image ingrained in your head painted by your parish priest and confessor that was hardly encouraging. Now that you’re here, you almost expect to see flaming towers and people cavorting in the dirt. You’re not entirely certain lightning won’t strike you down once you step foot on Redemption. You almost wish lightning would.

With a deep breath, you open the door.

You’re disappointed. Because you had expected so much, seeing the low cut gowns the women wore and the leathered up men was anticlimactic. The only details that reminded you that Redemption was not like any other city were the holsters the men wore, proudly brandishing weapons that would have been illegal anywhere else but in this city of sin. You wonder if the ladies had guns under their petticoats.

You step down and pay the driver, adding a generous tip. The fare itself was a hefty sum, but you expect to live to the hilt while you're here. After all, why not? Soon you will be free and everything that had haunted you these past years will seem inconsequential and trivial. The driver brings down your luggage and deposits you in front of the Red Lady Saloon.

Before you enter, you wonder how much it will cost you to kill a man.

His name is Buck Weston and he is reputed to be the best gun slinger in the country. According to your sources, he will pretty much do anything for the right price, including selling his own mother. What they didn’t tell you was that he was a handsome devil and that he could be such – such –

An ass.

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Mr. Weston,” you bite out, adding to his list of faults his lack of gentlemanly manners as you have conducted your thus far five minute conversation standing up while he calmly ate his meal unperturbed by the slight.

Buck took his time replying. “Well, see here, little lady –“

You are not little!

“- I don’t know what you heard about me, but I don’t just kill people for money. That just ain’t me. Now, if you tell me the entire story, maybe, just maybe I’ll be persuaded to fight for your cause.” Buck took a napkin and wiped his lips. “What you have so far is a sketch of a man, who has no name, who you insist is in Redemption who I should kill by tonight. It’s not much information to go on. Simply put, I’m just not interested enough to take the time out of my very busy schedule to do what you want, even if you are pretty.”

You wonder how long this conversation could go with you not strangling the man.

You take a deep breath and calm yourself. “Mr. Weston, if it’s just a matter of money –“

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Ms. Rogers, it’s not about the money. Pardon me?’

“It’s Mrs. Rogers,” you say, as if the oaf cared about manners.

“Mrs. Rogers,” says Buck, pushing his plate away as he leaned back against his chair, “It won’t do my reputation any good now, if they found out I would point and shoot whenever a beautiful lady asks me too, now would you? I’d like to think I have more discriminating tastes.”

You don’t know at which you would be shocked more, the sexual innuendo or that he truly believes he had a moral reputation to protect. Before you could say something – anything as a cutting retort to that - Buck stands up, throwing loose change on the table, picking up his Stetson.

“Now, if you have nothing else to tell me, I’d best be going. Got somewheres to go,” he said.

“Wait!” You say, because you cannot fail now, when you’re so close. “This man, this man killed my husband.” Several of them, at least you think he did, but you don’t say that.

Buck stops, and then he slowly turns and gives you the most dashing, devil-may-care smile you have ever seen. It must be the heat, but you could have sworn that the room moved.

“Now, that, is interesting,” Buck walks back toward you and you had to force yourself to keep meeting his eyes, “Here’s what, little lady, I’ll sleep on it tonight. I’ll tell you what I think tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You croak as he leaned forward to pick up the sketch he had earlier tossed aside and for one brief moment was too indecently close that you can smell his cologne. “Can’t you think about it this afternoon?”

“Don’t rush me, Mrs. Rogers. I like taking my time.”

And with that, he leaves.

And the full impact of what just happened, hit you and you want to cry.

Learning How To Mourn

My husband's Ninong Jamin passed away yesterday.

Standing amidst family and friends at the wake last night, I can't help but feel a little out of place. It's not because I'm treated any differently, in fact, I felt that everybody went out of their way to make me feel part of the family. But I still felt uncomfortable. I think its because I really don't know what to do. All around me, people were laughing and chatting and making jokes (like one particular classmate who kept asking why Ninong Jamin is always racing to the finish line), complaining about the air con, gossiping about dead people and their not so dead 'other' relations. Even my father-in-law (Ninong Jamin's only brother), seemed to be in good spirits, making small talk about politics and how his little girl (Corinne) was growing up.

Honestly, I didn't know how to react.

My experience with mourning, Filipino style, is horribly scarce. My parents didn't like attending wakes and funerals, and when they were forced to, they were loathed to bring me saying that they didn't want to traumatize me. As I grew up (theoretically more capable of taking whatever drama might take place), they still hesitated in taking me along, leaving me in the dark as to what actually takes place during those sorrowful gatherings. In fact, on my family's side, I've only attended one wake/funeral - that of my aunt, uncle and cousin (who died at that infamous Manor Hotel Tragedy) - and, believe it or not, even though we traveled all of eight hours to get to the province, I was only at the wake at most four hours.

In the case of my aunt, uncle and cousin, I knew that the reason was because my mother, strong as she was, couldn't take seeing the coffins. My mother's way of grieving came in spurts. When she found out about her sister's death, she cried for all of two minutes; but oh, what two minutes they were. She wailed and wept and screamed and fell to her knees, and for her daughter who rarely saw her as anything but strong, it was an eye opener. And then, after the two minutes, she was all right. Perfectly normal. Until we arrived at the place where we had to identify the bodies. Another two minutes of heart-wrenching sobs, until she just said, in a tone that could not be argued with, that she will not see the bodies. And then, again, she was fine. When we went up to the province to attend the wake, my father had to forcibly push her to the coffins so that she and all her siblings could have one last family picture (I know it sounds cruel, but at that time, it was important to the rest of the family to have that one last moment.), but even he could not take the physical manifestation of my mother's sorrow. And so just four hours into the wake (my mother spending most of those four hours outside the funeral parlor), we left and retired to one of the houses that was kindly lent to us for the duration of our stay.

Since I've married Alex, my experience with attending these wakes and funerals have gone up by more than 500%. Alex grew up, on the other hand, knowing it was polite (and required) to go to the wakes of of even friend's far relatives. And since his friends family was far more "cultured" than my family, one of the first surprises I had was that, 'nagpapakain pala sila'. Honestly, before that, I didn't know. But attending these wakes, I learned not only that they usually serve catered food, but they also provide giveaways, even a programme of activities where known choirs/singers performed. Comparing this to the rather traumatic first wake/funeral I've been too, it was a little overwhelming. And then, there was the 'grieving' part.

When I attended that one wake/funeral, it was easy to look sad and be quiet. And perhaps, because of the tragedy, everyone else was too. But with the recent ones I've attended, people tend to be happier, more at ease. It's almost like a mini-reunion. I don't know whether I should respond in the same way (and yet, it still feels inappropriate) or just smile, act like I'm part of the wall (as I've been doing). If I'm to take a cue from my husband, I would be all "social butterfly-ish" and go around chatting with people, which I can't actually do even if I had the gall to do it because I barely know anyone (On a side note, Alex too, apparently don't remember everybody's names, but that's my husband for you). And even then, do I even have the right to go around when, honestly, I'm not that close to the ones that have passed on?

And then, there's the what-do-I-say to people who are directly affected problem. Is saying 'condolence' Filipino style, sufficient? If I say a few pretty lines, would I be overstepping my bounds? If I don't, am I being too cold? With my mother, I knew exactly what to do, and more importantly, what not to do. But with these new influx of family that I care for who are suddenly affected by something like this, what do I say?

Even with my husband I don't know how to react. I remember waking early yesterday to my husband mumbling something. I would find out later that he was saying the rosary after finding out that Ninong Jamin's condition has taken a turn for the worse. I was barely conscious and he really didn't want to wake me, so he started praying by himself. But even if my body was sleepy, I knew something had gone wrong. We had visited Ninong Jamin the night before and knew his condition was not good. And so I tried to ask (clearly I thought) "What's wrong?", to which my husband did not reply, and I figured he didn't want to talk about it. Flash forward later that afternoon and my husband said the only thing he heard me say was "Grhghreh?", to which I of course insist, I was perfectly clear when I posed the question.

Funny anecdote aside, I don't know what to say to Alex. He seems fine, and just like my mother, he seems perfectly normal. But unlike my mother, I don't know what not to do. We talk about the same things, he doesn't seem sad (except at one point during the wake when we both were affected seeing Tita Malen wiping the holy water off the coffin with her hands so that she could see Ninong Jamin better), he acts as if everything is fine. But I know he was close to Ninong Jamin. I keep thinking that perhaps, because I'm not (I only met Ninong Jamin a few times before the hospital visit) that close, he can't really share his sadness with me. And then, another more cerebral part of me insists that, probably, just like the rest of his family, they grieve by acting normal and by praying and by having utter faith that Ninong Jamin and the rest that had gone ahead, are now happier wherever they are.

Maybe someday, I would learn the same.

Comparing Green Eyed Monsters

Once upon a time, I was an extremely vocal, jealous girlfriend/loved one that lead to serious problems with my relationships at that time. Since then, I like to think I've grown - not so much as being the less jealous type, but more of knowing how to rein in my little green eyed monster. Right now, I tend to coat my possessive tendencies as jokes, and, as much as possible, I try not to let it get more serious than that. My husband senses though the storm beneath the calm waters (Or maybe, I'm just deluding myself into thinking I've got it under control - lol) and knows when to tiptoe around particular issues especially involving one particular ex-girlfriend.

Alex, on the other hand, is extremely un-possessive. I could go around flirting with men on a regular basis and I know it wouldn't bother him - not that I do, mind you - just that I know if I did, it wouldn't be a big issue. Which brings me to a sticky point in my long winded blog - if someone is not possessive nor jealous of you, does that mean that person doesn't think there's a risk of losing you? Which doesn't sound half as bad if it means you are doing a good job of showing you love him/her, but sounds absolutely horrid if it means that he just doesn't think you're good enough to get somebody else's attention.

In my case, on a purely cerebral level, I know that Alex is just being Alex, and with his confidence (partly because of the way he grew up, partly because its in his genes, and simply partly because he trusts me completely), he is not afraid of losing me. However, on an emotional level, I can't help but sometimes feel that a small, infinitesimal part of him believes I'm not attractive enough (and flirtatious enough) to the opposite sex (well, these days, it doesn't matter whether its opposite, does it?) that there's a risk I might fall for someone other than him (or that someone may attempt to make me fall for someone other than him).

I know that part of my jealousy stems from my insecurities (I have a lot of them as people may have noticed) and from my belief that Alex is a good looking, nice guy, who's smart, kind and practically spoils his loved ones that I almost always feel especially lucky that of all the women he could have gotten he chose me (the 'almost' there are for the times when he would disallow me from eating ice cream on the divan - ha!). As such, I think a lot of women (and some men) would be willing and open to flirt with him, wife notwithstanding. So, if he's never, ever jealous of me (Is this 'of', or 'for'? I'm not sure anymore.), does it, in some way, mean the opposite?

Or am I just being paranoid?

Sigh. Maybe there are some things where epiphanies will come maybe, oh, ten years down the line. Till then, maybe I can train my green eyed monster to do some other tricks.