I remember during the first few days of my Muay Thai training, my trainer made some comments about my natural fighting stance, how it's easy for a beginner like me to learn the roundhouse kick, and how good I was at throwing punches (the uppercut was quite a challenge though). It was my very first martial arts training. But decades ago, I had informal lessons with my uncle Vic.

I think that's one of the many things he did for me that I was so grateful for.

He was the one who taught me how to defend and stand up for myself. Probably the reason why I was never bullied despite having this payatot, bullyable physique. I mean, they tried. But they only ended up with a bloody nose and never messed with me again.

And until this very day, nobody could bully me. Except my kids. 😅

I would have turned this into a parenting blog—where I may never have to run out of things to write and, therefore, make a living out of it—but it will only reveal the sh*t mom that I am.

You would probably read nothing but parenting fails. I would be shamed for being the kind of mother who orders pizza for dinner, gives in to screen time to shut the kids, lets toys take over the living room, doesn't mind the kids rolling on dirt, and one who would probably use a child leash at the mall when the situation calls for it.

It was in the early 2000s when I learned how to craft byte-sized narratives (a.k.a. blog) and I have been suffering from word vomit ever since. To those who know me, it's not a surprise that when I have something to say, I don't hold back. 

And when I say I have something to say, it doesn't involve the mouth. I write. My thoughts are delivered better when written than spoken, even if they do not make any sense at all.

Although, ever since I gave birth to Chris in 2020, I have been awfully quiet. Facebook has been devoid of my opinions about politics. social issues, or any relatable real-life dramas that spark off heated arguments because I was too exhausted to care... 

Until this engagement ring hullabaloo.

For this year's year-end post, Jan takes the center stage. Again.

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It was around January this year when I noticed one of my fingers started swelling. I thought it was just a simple case of a sprained finger. But one inflamed finger led to another, until I could not twist open a bottle of water anymore. Five of my fingers looked like sausages. Both my wrists have become inflamed too. Of course, I had it checked and I was initially diagnosed with Reactive Arthritis.

Aside from the corticosteroids that I am taking which have nasty effects on my mood and weight, I was also on strong painkillers albeit, at most, they can only reduce pain—still leaving my hands in their most useless state. I could not drive. I had a hard time putting my clothes on. Heck, I could not even open the door on my own. It was that painful. And it went on like that for 6 months. It's been almost a year since I was diagnosed and I am still in pain right now, but not as much as I was back then.

Needless to say, Jan is the one doing almost everything. 

Picture this. He starts his day early in the morning to drive Rhett to school and he'll end the day putting our toddlers to sleep (back then, their bed time was at 12mn). His working hours are flexible. So as a team lead, it could also mean he can have multiple meetings in a day that can start as early as 7am and go as late as 11pm. In between, he does most household chores. And even though he assumed being solely responsible for Chris (paligo, pakain, and all), he still helps me with Isabel. I am without a job right now and I could have made myself useful, but then I have to become an additional burden to him because he has to assist me with anything that would require my hands. We have no yaya or house help.

I know he is exhausted (an understatement). But I have never, not once, heard him complain. Never nanumbat o nagparinig. If anything, he'll just throw me a hug, give me a massage, surprise me with any food that will make me feel better, and even encourage me to attend media events or go out with friends. Siya na yung pagod, pero ako pa rin unang iniisip niya.

I suppose a 50-50 marriage, on the surface, seems to make sense. You stay married because you are both putting the same amount of time and effort into the relationship. But with what's happening to us, I realized a 50-50 marriage doesn't always work. When you want to go the extra mile, 50-50 is definitely out of the equation.

A few Sundays ago, I decided to hit the road to fetch Jan in General Santos City. Honestly, with the cost of fuel consistently going up where a 500-peso worth of gas won't get you anywhere, I could have just let him commute because that would have been obviously waaaay cheaper. 

But after years of mothering a tornado trio without a nanny, I thought I'd take this opportunity to escape all kinds of duties. Savor at least two and a half hours of freedom that comes with going on a solo drive, 140 kms away from home. 

No kids, no chores, no routine, no chaos, no emails, no stress.

And no one to tell me how fast I can go—not a city ordinance, not a speed camera, nor a speed limit sign. Except, the husband, Jan.