I want to have my kids of my own. I see how my brother is with his 5-year-old daughter and I tell myself I want one too. Preferably a boy. Fraternal twins would be fantastic. A boy and a girl. I even have a name in mind for the boy. It’s a cool name. Methinks.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not exactly green with envy that my bro and former classmates now how their own families worrying more about health care, tuition, milk, diapers. Serious stuff.
It seems, observing from afar, that it would be nice to go home to a wife and kids after a boring day at work rather than to an empty apartment that has been a staple of my life for years.
The thought makes me both smile and cringe. Raising a kid is tough. They throw tantrums. Wail with no apparent reason. They piss and shit and you have to clean up the mess. Walls covered with crayon marks. Toys litter the household.
They also ask the most innocent of questions that adults grapple to find answers palatable to their unblemished young minds.
As a kid, I was no exception. Here are a couple of them.
Cemetery on All Saint’s Day.
Me: Ma, why are all tombstones have RIP in them?
Ma: Because they are all dead and we wish their souls to rest in peace.
Me: Why are they all dead?
Ma: Because Jesus wants to be with them in heaven.
Me: Ma, why are they all raped?
I don’t remember what mama answered. What I do remember was staring at all the crosses near lolo’s final resting place and wondering why all of them were raped. Ah. As a kid I was already showing a demented mind.
Me: What is SEA Games?
Co: Short for Southeast Asian Games.
Me: They play it in the sea?
Co: Some of them. Some in pools. Some in land.
Me: Why do they call it sea games when they also play on land?
Co: You will know when you grow up.
I was adorable then. I think. I hope my kids will be too.