Someone left a fresh can of hairspray on my desk and I may or may not have teared up. @maxignacio0219
Ely Buendia singing Ang Huling El Bimbo for The Plectrum Sessions. I kind of died. #BenShermanMagnolia
The new Ben Sherman concept store opens in Robinson’s Magnolia. Oh and let the shirt-tenders show you a thing or two by the shirt bar. #BenShermanMagnolia
I am my mother’s son.
At around 1:30 this morning I stared at my bodega of a room and lost it. I had it with the clutter and mess that my mom has constantly been telling me to get rid of. “But ma, you never know when I can use something” or “You know what, ma, just let me be.”
Let me be.
At one point of our lives as children we’ve longed to break free from the confines of a family because they don’t necessarily get you. The Spice Girls said it best, she used to be my only enemy and never let me be free. But obviously that was before any age of proper reasoning.
Most of my adolescent life was just poisoned with that thought. I want to get out. Whatever my mother would say was simply categorized as yakking or a buzz in the ear because you know what, they don’t understand.
More than anyone, I have come to realize, they understand.
We are not a showy kind of family - more so me and my mother. But we are the most emotional ones of the coo-coo bunch. It is true, I am my mother’s son. And when people tell me that now, I couldn’t help but beam with so much pride. Whatever and whoever I am now I owe to the indomitable spirit of my mother. Imagine raising three oft-stubborn kids who think they know better than anyone. When clearly, they know but a surface level of things she knows.
My mother isn’t perfect. I can still remember the time I couldn’t understand the concept of long division and in sheer frustration, she banged my favorite yellow umbrella too hard until it snapped. I was angry then but now looking back she was just frustrated. She knew I could understand it. I just wasn’t opening my mind enough. Plus I freeze at the mere mention of math.
But still she lets us be ourselves. Never once did she come in the way of my dreams. And this is what really gets me. Because I know she didn’t get to live most of her dreams because she decided being a full-time mother was her biggest dream in life. Again, never showy with the emotions, I knew she is my biggest (and loudest) cheerleader. She’ll never give it to me though but I know. I know.
More than anything, I guess, is that I am most grateful to the only woman I will live and die for. I will seriously take a bullet for the woman who makes me laugh when I am sad or makes me pancakes or joins me in going fashion police come Oscar awards night.
And there is nothing more I live for everyday except to make my mama proud (and papa of course, but Father’s day comes next month. Tsaka na siya.).
I never tell her enough that I love her. I love you mama. I love how we can have the most adult of conversations and then seconds later it becomes child-like, which I enjoy. I love how you let me be in-charge of Operation: Christmas at Home. It still petrifies me that I am on top of decors, cheers and food but you taught me very well. I love how you taught me to articulate my thoughts. You are after all, my main audience. I love how I wear my heart on my sleeve, just like you. No other accessory will come close.
Happy mother’s day, mama! I love you so much, words will never be enough. And no matter how much I’ve grown up, I will forever be your baby bubu.
And yes, I cleaned my room. I can now breathe well and it is livable. You will be proud. Ganyan tayo pag tinopak, naglilinis ng kung anu-ano na walang oras na sinasanto.
Almost brought home a man earlier. Couldn’t get past obvious imperfections. Does that make me shallow?
Once when he was a wee child, he stuck a crayon up his nose because he wanted colorful boogers. If that doesn't explain his temperament and artistry then maybe he is just neurotic. Although he does take great pride in his neurosis, which he usually mistakes for his schizophrenia.