The rains are a distant memory today. The sun has come back with a vengeance and I am on my way, at last, to Binondo. As I come all the way from Meycauayan, I have to endure the traffic along Iba Road which connects our community with the expressway. The NLEX isn’t bad.  But A. Bonifacio, C-3, Jose Abad Santos and Recto are horrendously congested. Traffic in Manila makes me claustrophobic; especially on Ongpin Street.  Cars are double-parked, streets are confusingly one-way and parking is impossible to find.

If you add to these aggravations the consideration that we are not going to Binondo for sightseeing or shopping, we are going to Binondo to see a doctor: you get the picture. We have to wait for the doctor to arrive, wait for our number to be called, and wait around eavesdropping on other people’s health concerns. There is no such thing as privacy, personal space or dignity when you are sick, I suppose.

The motivation to go to Binondo is simple: Western medicine has failed to accurately diagnose the problem despite all the needles, probes, x-rays, 2D-echo, ultrasound, etc. Western pharmaceuticals have failed to give relief. So, you find an alternative. If not for the quest for relief, I wouldn’t go to Binondo!

I realize there are skeptics who will read this. I understand, I used to be one of them. In 2001, I had intense pain radiating from my lower back all the way up my right shoulder down my arm to my fingers.  I could not get rid of it. My sister took me to Binondo and the good Chinese herbalist gave me tea to take for five days (don’t ask me what kind of dried grass, leaves, tree bark, dried fruit were in the tea pack, I wouldn’t know.  It tasted, I imagined, how flood waters would taste like: mud and piss. The tea looked like it, too.) After I took the tea, I had to go back and he manipulated my spine (instantaneous relief!). Of course, I was hanging upside down on a stainless steel frame while he was whipping me about and I could hear my vertebrae popping. Sounds medieval?  But it worked: no more lower back pain for me.

The other more pleasant motivation for going to Binondo, came about quite by accident. The second trip to Binondo, the doctors came a little late and there were more than the usual people.  We didn’t finish until nearly 11 am and then I had to wait for the Chinese pharmacy to fill out my prescription (It’s written in Chinese characters which I can’t read, ok?). On my way back, I noticed a lady peddling inihaw na mais (grilled corn). She told me that the corn was just picked that morning (yeah, right) but since I was hungry and none of us poor sick souls can eat fast food anymore, I felt compelled to buy.

When I got to the car and hubby smelled it, he guessed it. The next thing he said to me was: “Para ka namang Mommy ko.  Mahilig sa inihaw na mais iyon.” Of course, I made a disclaimer that it was purely coincidental, although I have always liked inihaw na mais.

Truth to tell, no daughter-in-law ever wants to hear her husband say that she resembles her mother-in-law in any way. It used to be that when my husband said that, I took it to mean as a coded message: I was being bossy like his mom (whom I thought to be rather bossy.  Coming from me, well, you might say that it takes a thief to know a thief!).

I’ve been married to my husband for 18 years and I have known him for an additional 14 years prior to marrying him, I think I am not bragging when I say that I know him. I don’t take umbrage when he says things like that anymore; especially since I have noticed that when he does compare me with his mother, the comparisons are more favorable to me. He says, for instance, of my chicken pastel, “This is better than my mom’s.” This is the same thing he says of my kare-kare and of many other things I cook.

These days, when he says that I remind him of his mother, he says it with a kind of awe: like I’m a composite of Margaret Thatcher, Martha Stewart, Mata Hari and  Florence Nightingale. I used to think that I had to live up to his mother’s standards (which was why I used to cringe when he said things like that) Then I realized that his mother wasn’t the standard I had to live up to, she was just a mere point of reference. His mother is the only up close and personal example of womanhood he has observed. (I am not digressing, really.  I can tie all this up a few paragraphs later.)

On our third trip to Binondo, my brother-in-law said to my hubby that he saw a store that sells fresh lumpia. My husband then told me to see if I can find it when I come back from the pharmacy. For those of you who know me, I don’t usually take orders, when I said my marriage vows, I specifically told the Reverend Ben O. Abante that I will not say “to love and obey” instead, I insisted on saying “to love and to honor” (But this is really for another blog.)

Hubby knows exactly how to motivate me. He said, “I remember you told me that your mom used to buy fresh lumpia as pasalubong for you when you go to Divisoria.  It could be the same thing.” How could I refuse?

I still remember when I was young.  My mother was a custorera.  She had her own air conditioned dress shop and beauty parlor ( it was a big deal in 1967!).  When my Dad became a lawyer, my mother closed up shop and became a full-time housewife. Part of our summer ritual was piling into our old 1964 Toyota Crown de Luxe (there were three of us siblings by that time) and our driver will park somewhere while my mother descended into the labyrinthine shops on Ilaya where all her suki were.  She would buy cloth on wholesale to make into Sunday polo shirts for the boys, summer house dresses and Sunday dresses for me, tetoron for our uniforms and Indian pin head and oxford for my school skirts.  When she came back with brown-paper and news-paper wrapped packages, she also brought food with her. She’d come back with pan de sal with slices of Chines ham in it; adobong mani, nilagang mani, lowa and my favorite lumpiang sariwa. I remember it like it was yesterday. The spiciness of the fresh crushed garlic, the peppery litsugas, the sweet ground peanuts, the crunchy vegetables, what a delight. My mouth watered when I thought of the lumpia so off to find it I went. Hubby’s motivation worked!

When I came back from the pharmacy, I go on foot in search of the lumpiang sariwa of my childhood, spurred on by my hubby’s suggestion.  I find it: it’s a hole-in-the-wall on Ongpin Street. The lumpia was assembled and rolled right in front of me. And it was cheap, too. A special jumbo lumpiang sariwa cost P50. A tokwa (so smooth and velvety in Oyster sauce) costs P60. Think of the tokwa you buy from the market and put three of them together, that’s how big and fresh the tokwa is. Pancit canton costs P80.

When I got into the car and bit into my lumpiang sariwa, I felt transported back to my childhood. I have my mother to thank for that memory, for my love for vegetables, for my love for food and cooking.  And, quite frankly, as I am ageing, I begin to hear my mother’s own words coming out of my mouth! Yikes, could it be?  Could I be morphing into my mom?

I think during the last few days of summer vacation, we took the kids with us to Binondo as well. My daughter tried the lumpia and I never got my lumpia back. Once, when we finished at the doctor’s and the pharmacy, I noticed a jewelry shop and I looked at the rings.  Since giving birth to my two children, I have been unable to wear my wedding band comfortably: my knuckles have expanded and, well, become quite padded.

As I was looking at the rings in the glass case, my daughter came alongside me. She pointed to the one she liked. I pointed to the one I liked. Then hubby came alongside us and said, “Maganda, ano? Mataas siguro ang kilatis niyan. Tignan mo nga.” I tried the ring on and the lady weighed it and told me that the one I liked cost P8,500 and it was 22k.  My husband asked to see a his and hers yellow gold band and each cost P22,000. I gasped. And I walked away. Hubby said, “Don’t you like it?” I said, “Naku, downpayment na sa tuition ng mga bata yan. I’m just looking. Maybe for our silver wedding anniversary or something.”

In the car, my daughter whispered to me, “I thought you liked it.” So I whispered back to her, “If I tell your Dad that I liked it, the next time he has money, he will buy it for me.” My daughter was shocked and incredulous.  Remember the new computer? My laptop? The new ref? The gas range? My daughter’s eyes were like saucers! “Mama, you’re spoiled! Daddy spoils you.” Of course, I said.  Most men who are in love with their wives spoil their wives.  Now, if am a good wife, (and I am or at least I have been trying my very best to be a good wife) I don’t take advantage of my husband’s love or generosity. I don’t take it for granted either. I think of the drain on the family resources my one whim and fancy will cost. And, I moderate my greed. I also ask him to put the things we buy on his credit card and I pay for the installments (he says I can always pay when able.)

I looked at my daughter and I said, if you want to keep your husband, never ever make him feel your hand in his pocket. A good husband is not an ATM machine. You’re supposed to be business partners, too. My daughter gave me a look and shuddered. I’m too young to hear this, mom, she said.

That shut me up but  it got me thinking. I was very young when my mother told me things like that.  Sometimes, she’d be holding a thick wad of bills while sitting on their bed.  She would count the bills before she put it back inside the pillow case. I must have had the question “What are you doing?” written all over my face because my mom would say, your Dad told me to hold this money and it’s supposed to be for this and this and that and he told me to take a little and buy you kids this and that and so I am counting it to see that I don’t overspend Dad’s money. Men often leave their wives because their wives are too materialistic.

Again, my questions must have been legible on my face because my mom would look at me and say “It’s the family money. Dad earned it. It’s not mine to spend any way I want. When I earn my own money, then I can spend it any way I want.” And that would start my mom off on telling me how to keep  my husband happy when I finally get married.  I was eight or nine then.

I didn’t think I listened to my mother then.  I certainly never took to heart anything she said to me about that. But then when I analyze the dynamics of my relationship with my husband, it surprises me to no end how I have imbibed my mother’s point of view.

My mother was of the persuasion that men are naturally polygamous; and there are women who like preying on married men. Conclusion: your husband is a target.  So keeping your husband faithful is often not solely a personal choice of the man, it is also accomplished by feminine virtue or wiles of the wife. I remember telling my mother that I’d never get married so she’s wasting her lectures on me.

Guess what? I have grown old and I have seen my share of cases involving annulment of marriage. My mother’s wisdom cannot be gainsaid. It is not enough to find a good man, you must be a good woman to keep that good man.  You cannot keep him prisoner or hostage, you cannot put him on a leash, you must trust his leadership and still leave him breathless, panting for more of the TLC only you can give.  If it requires being a bit of a therapist, confessor or friend, you must be a bit of all.

Men are human and society puts too much pressure on them to look good, to earn much, to succeed, to be strong and to be an all-around good guy. If your husband is a good husband and father, he didn’t become one by accident.  Chances are, he had a good dad who modeled for him everyday what a good dad is. (Salamat po, Mang Miniong!). He had a good granddad who took time to listen to him (salamat po, Lolo Neong). He had a good mom who made him tough and disciplined (Salamat, Aling Lor!) And he must have a good wife as part of the package. A good husband and father is necessarily a man who fears God and believes himself accountable to God for personal excellence and integrity.

To my hubby (he doesn’t have a facebook account so he won’t ever know I said any of this–he hates it when I talk about him), you are the best Dad I could ever ask for our kids. Having met you, having married you and having kids with you are the best blessings from God I have received.  Thank you for “fathering” my soul when I need it and I hope that I “mother” your soul when you need it. Happy Father’s Day.

If they say that it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a family to raise a boy into a good man who will become a good husband and father.  A good father is a reflection of our good Heavenly Father. It is not an option, it is a command for all men to be like our Heavenly Father.

Happy father’s day to all the good fathers out there. May your tribe increase!