What happened to the restless pen? Did it finally decide to rest?
For a time, its ink flowed freely—spewing words culled from the depths of an inexhaustible spring of jumbled thoughts and experiences. I thought the well would never run dry, the heart to document would never cease beating, the panting would not halt. Whew, passions can indeed be set aside. For want of helping the hub settle mounting onuses, I had to content myself just casting a longing glance at the pink notebook I have come to rely on to record my thoughts and inner battles. The basic –food and shelter—should be at the top of the checklist. The passion, on the other hand, can take the backseat, contained for a while, yet ready to be unleashed again when the eureka moment comes, like a cocooned butterfly waiting for its shining moment to finally flap its wings in sheer abandon.
Well, I am back. And now, I’ll wax poetic. I was browsing my pink notebook and I came across a poem I started to compose for my firstborn. There were only three stanzas. I pulled a chair and started staring at the immaculate wall before me. Soon the memories started rushing in. When I showed the finished product to my two boys, there was unabashed laughter – with the older one, red with embarrassment.
Rovik Lemuel, hmmmm, What’s in a name?
The first is a rip-off from Dad’s first names
The second means king—from the Holy Book it was taken
He is our firstborn – truly a gift from heaven.
He was a bundle of joy, truth be told
He popped out in 2000, boy is he now old
Chubby cheeks, chinky eyes, disarming smile, surprising wit
All these and more…Yup, every antic was a hit
At two years old, he recited the whole Psalms 23
Man, how did he do it? He could not read until he was three
He was like a sponge that absorbed everything
His mind was a magnet, attracting with zing
Long poems he loved to memorize and recite
like “The Monkey and The Turtle,” and “Only One Life.”
“The Boy Who Promised Mother,” to me was a score
And so was his favorite—“Heaven’s Grocery Store.”
Tomica… Oh it was his favorite brand
Tiny toy cars of all colors displayed in the stand
Once, Dad brought him a caterpillar train, yah, to delight him
But when it started to crawl and blink, he scampered, frightened.
“Swiper, no swiping!” He would mimic Dora the Explorer
“Uno, dos, tres, ola amigo!” he uttered with unabashed ginger
Kiddie show and games would always make his day
“Blue’s Clues,” “Jumpstart” and “Bananas in Pajamas” until he hit the hay.
At four, he was crazy over a TV show titled “Mulawin”
So he prodded Mom to make him a pair of wings
500 bucks did I pay as he thought he could fly
But his heart sank when it did not take him soaring to the sky.
Oh, didn’t you know he imitated his Mommy?
For a number of times, he squatted when he tried to pee
Once I caught him wearing my undies with a mischievous grin
To my dismay, inserted within was a pad of feminine napkin!
“Mommy, I used your magazine,” he quipped.
“It’s napkin son, for ladies, not for boys.” I panicked.
“And boys don’t squat when they wanna pee.”
“They stand tall and relieve themselves with glee.”
At five, he loved scribbling love notes to his dear Mom
He poured his heart and thoughts on paper by his lonesome
He promised to buy her a hotel, one that wasn’t too tall
She would stay at the ground floor, with servants at her beck and call
At six, I considered him a car racing virtuoso
At Tom’s World and Timezone, he played with much gusto
At the House of the Dead, the zombies were ripped apart
by a buck-toothed, engrossed li’l boy who never did fart
He loved to sing until his voice turned hoarse and whispery
Avril’s “Complicated” and Westlife’s “Uptown Girl” in a full-blast videoke
With hand gestures, pleading eyes, and a rhythmic sway of his torso
Hillsong’s “Through it All” he performed before Nanay and Lolo.
When he was in grade one, at Trace College, he competed in swimming
(Yah, you got it right, that was the venue of the 2005 Sea games!)
On their seats along the sidelines, Dad and Mom were squirming
Their firstborn in fighting form, their minds were reeling.
A six-year old against 12 year-olds, so tiny yet undaunted
like a rat on skimpy briefs against bulldogs that were well-fed
But as he finished a 100-meter breaststroke heat
The spectators drew a thunderous applause and rose to their feet!
Whoah, I was one real proud mommah
Dad as he watched, held a shaking camera
Oh, even when a “DQ” was displayed beside his name
For clocking beyond the limit, our boy never budged in shame.
There was no stopping from the sport of his choice
Backstroke, breastroke, freestyle and butterfly, yah no more toys
Flipturn, backturn, bubbles, tap, glide and warm down he should
Soon he brought home the bacon as only a champion could.
From swimming, to playing soccer he switched
He joined Victory team, never dreaming defeat
When they battled against burly boys from IS
We pretty moms cracked our tonsils.
Homeschooling made him extra versatile
He’s a Math wiz, and he plays the violin and keyboard well
In writing he dabbled, with much prodding from Mom
But me oh, my, his evolution as writer is awesome!
From innocent notes to Mom which were full of promises
to writing kiddie stories, narratives, poems and essays
In his magazine—“The Homeschool Bugle” he now displays
Winged thoughts on paper, showcasing writing skills
Oh, at home he’s a dependable and responsible kiddo
Every imaginable chore he performs el pronto
From scrubbing the toilet bowl to cooking Adobo
Washing clothes, landscaping, even gardening without a hoe
With all these, how would you describe this boy’s childhood
Fanciful? normal? memorable? fun or crude?
Me oh my, why don’t you simply ask this dude?
He is now 5’7,” crazy over Steph Curry and loves food!
That’s Rovik Lemuel, stripped, unloaded, in the nude
Take him or leave him, nope, he will never be rude
He’s sport and laughs at himself as he much as he could
With a poem this good, I bet he is now in a great mood!