anne’s sponge

I was completely floored when I learned about this course requiring me to write a reflective essay about myself as a writer. I never tagged myself as a writer before but looking back, I realize that I have written all my life. I have written about my fears, my anxieties, my thoughts and my dreams. I recall writing on my scented journals in grade school, swapping letters with my girl friends, passing a note to my crush and seeing him blush. I remember corresponding with my father who was overseas for ten, long years and how he was so proud of me when he read the articles I wrote for my high school paper of which I was once the Features Editor.   I also distinctly remember when I recently learned about blogging (online journal writing) and my first entry was about the regrets I have in my life. Those regrets are gone and I stashed away whatever hard copy I have of that sad narrative.

I used to be a big fan of journals, planners and gel pens of all colors and sizes. I used to write about everything, and on any medium.  If  I had my way I would buy myself that digital smartpen that can capture what you write and transfer the notes to your computer. But right now my personal digital assistant will suffice. Recently I have limited myself to writing only important dates on my PDA like doctor’s appointment, school activities and bill reminders. That way I get reminded only of what I have to do, of what I should not miss and tasks I should not put off.  Somehow I try to seize the day and look forward. It’s cliché to even say that writing aids your memory. I believe in that so much that I have actually shunned writing my personal thoughts down as they will only remind me of the things I once had but lost, things in the past that have only slowed me down, things in my life that are still not in place, things that I have been waiting for but I still have not embraced.

Writing is therapy for me, for as long as I do not linger on the grisly details. I find myself more productive now that I do not browse my old journals and keep looking back on what I have failed to do in the past.  I have ceased thinking about what could have been if I went back there. I have stopped writing in my journal about our every conversation, reflecting on whether I said too much or cut too short.  I have forced myself to accept that our story has ended and there will no longer be a sequel.  I still write, but at least now it is not about him. (NOT?) 

Somebody sent me a text message saying “The enemy of present happiness is past happiness too well remembered.” I was tempted to reply that it is “unhappiness” in my case but the principle is just the same: that dwelling too much in the past causes sluggishness. I have realized that sometimes writing down memories are fine as long as they do not take up too much space in your life that you can hardly move forward. I am also now cognizant of the fact that writing about lessons learned spurs interest more than writing about your mistakes.

If there was a movie I would be asked to write about, it would be Disney’s computer-animated film “Meet the Robinsons.”  It is about a whiz kid who was left at an orphanage as a baby. He invented a memory scanner he used as he went back in time to search for his mother and ask her why she did what she had to do. The movie’s theme “keep moving forward” has touched a nerve and made me see the error of my ways such as breathing life in what is long ago dead. I realized that I should quit being too nostalgic and just be thankful about the blessings I have in the present instead. Now I try to focus my energies reflecting on and writing not about things that are already threadbare but on things that bear promise. Like a traveler, I am ready to ignore the trails and embark on a new journey .

       “Kindergarten,” I thought to myself as I fling my arm to turn off Beethoven’s Fur Elise blaring from my cell phone calendar screen.

       Waking up at 6:30 in the morning is not in my list of favorite things, but today is my son’s most anticipated day. I hate to wake him up from his slumber but at least I would get things started by my morning routine of pink grapefruit facial scrub. How I love the invigorating scent and the feel of tiny beads exfoliating my skin.

     “Now this does the job and I’m definitely awake,” I muttered to myself.

      I filled the green kettle with water for coffee and oatmeal later. Probably sensing my absence in the room or waking up to the soft whistling sound of the kettle, my son stood by the  bedroom door with his usual innocent stare that I always consider a sight to behold.

      “Hello, buttercup,” I greeted him as he walks to give me a hug.

      As soon as he finished breakfast and gobbled down his Spiderman gummy bear vitamins, I sent him to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. I let him have a bubble bath last night as a treat, and I still smell the faint scent on his hair as I style it with a pea-sized amount of gel. I shake my head in disgust as I looked at how, despite my best efforts, his haircut still did not look right. I could already hear my mother scolding me and sending us to the barber shop right around the corner. My thoughts were interrupted by my son clutching my arm and hastily heading toward the door.

      “But we cannot leave your backpack,” I told him as I recall from yesterday’s orientation.   

      After finally finding a parking spot on the crowded street, I reached for my international roaming cell phone and showed my son his father’s text message telling him do’s and don’ts on his first day. I noticed I was not the only eager parent there, as some even took pictures and video clips. The following school day however was the one that elicited more promise when my the students were told to bring anything they want to share in class and he chose to bring a book.

     “Mommy, everybody clapped their hands after I read my book,” uttered my son in between gasps of breath when I picked him up. He narrated how Ms. Battiste, his teacher, repeatedly said “This boy can read” to the other teacher she invited from the other class to come watch.  He was beaming with pride when he told me he was asked to bring the same book again on their Back to School Night two weeks from now for a presentation.

       Yes, my boy can read and it is difficult to be modest about it. He can read not only phrases and sentences, but books and even children’s encyclopedia. I read fairytales to him as an infant and he read me back stories at the age of 3. Iremember back then when I had too much on my plate studying and working 96 hours a week.  My friend who is a full time mom even drove me crazy trying to make me feel guilty that I was always physically absent and not around to take care of my child. I know she meant well but of course she did not understand I had to make a living. I just took what she had to say with an open mind and made sure I spent quality time with my son. Now I am reaping the rewards and seeing the fruits of my labor.

       My son and I called my parents to gab and jabber. I told my father how all the clutter he left here at home when he moved out somehow shaped my son’s cognitive skills. I have him to thank for making  my son grow up surrounded by bookshelves, learning materials and educational toys. As I sit back and chronicle extensively about how my mother was able to raise me and my two sisters well, I feel all jittery that I would pale in comparison as a mother. My son is only five years old and Kindergarten only marks the beginning of the hurdles I am going to go through. Sometimes I feel like I am standing on thin ice with infinitesimal chance of following my parents’ trail. But at least I have them to consult about parenting any time, and so I consider myself blessed.