If I have a poem for the older one, I should have one for the younger. I composed the following poem wayback—when my boy was still entering primary school. Much has transpired since then. He is now 11 and acts as a preteener should – “feeling adult,” and “reasoning like he knows better.” I guess I need to sit down again, gather my thoughts and relive the memories of his childhood.
Hi, there. Just call me Orvik
I am six, ice creams I love to lick
For flavor, give me cookies and cream
Yup, I tell you, my eyes will surely beam.
I was born on the eight of August
But the doctor said I was not robust
I was so tiny, like a newborn puppy
I refused milk, according to my mommy.
So the nurses came with a syringe
They patted my arm to look for a vein
Then slowly I felt the needle prick
as blood oozed and time ticked.
Not a single cry did I ever let out
A slight whimper, yes, but not a pout
I opened my eyes, gazed at my Mom
Then drifted to sleep by my lonesome.
When I awoke, I saw a heplock
T’was on my left wrist, what a shock
The doc mentioned, I got an infection
and I had to be treated, no question!
I was brought home to Camp Vicente Lim
As tiny as Jerry, but oh, so cute to the brim
For seven days and seven nights, modesty aside
I sucked milk, cooed, pooped and cried.
Months passed, and I started to crawl.
My hair sprouted, I looked like a troll
But cutesy, cutesy and chubby was I
My cheeks so pinkish, like a saucy pizza pie
Dodi ko, Dodi ko, None none ashton,
Gibberish nonsense,my mode of communication
Whatever they meant, I certainly didn’t know
As I giggled and crawled with my yaya in tow.
At one, I was taken to the barber for my first haircut
I squirmed, whined and wailed, I could not be stopped
When I saw the pair of scissors, I was a scaredy cat
My Kuya pacified me with his antics, looking like a nut
When I started to talk, I learned to say “wato,” and “shodo”
What I meant “water” and “shoulder” for these two
A flower, I called “thlathlo.” while diaper is “diapo.”
My words–out of this world, incomprehensible even to Lolo.
I sometimes wondered, where I got my British accent
Dad is Bisaya, words and phrases he would bend
while Mom’s a Bicolana, using an American tongue
Though babysat by Barney I spoke with a British twang,
At two, I was in our bedroom with my Mommy
I tinkered with her makeup kit, wanting to be pretty
I applied her eyeshadow, Mom took a video of me
When I was done, I said, “Mommy, may I see?”
The hourglass tipped again, soon I was three
My brother of eight, I looked up with glee
Whatever he did, I gladly imitated
As he sang, danced, tumbled and gyrated.
Truly my bro and I were an inseparable duo
Wearing the same clothes, sporting similar hairdo
Yah, yah, yah, I doubt if Kuya liked it
But Mommy insisted and everyone conceded.
Growing up I adored my older brother to the hilt
Every sway and every croon made me excited
If he knew by heart Psalm 23, Psalm 91 was my forte
Mind you, Psalm 1 is a chapter I committed to memory.
Four, five and now six, in a blink of an eye, time zoomed
Beyond many twists and turns, busts and booms
I learned to read and write, think and imagine
Now look, in due time I would be seven
Officially, I declare, ‘I am a citizen of heaven!”