This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on October 21, 2000.
They are both my age. They have three children, all under 9. I grew up with the husband, Daniel. His wife, Tara, was his childhood sweetheart. It was with her that he had his first sexual “experiment” as he called it when his parents raised hell over the unexpected and premature conception of their first apo.
Both Daniel and Tara were just a few semesters shy of graduating with Computer Science and Biology degrees from De La Salle University when she discovered her accidental pregnancy. Both belonged to relatively conservative families with high hopes for their first-born. The two were married off faster than it takes to receive one’s magazine subscription.
Sometimes when I pass by their house, I catch Daniel barbecuing the family dinner at night. In the afternoon, I would see Tara hanging the laundry on the terrace while their youngest, 4-year-old Inee, sits sulking nearby. Inee is my godchild.
I have to smile to myself before we greet each other because they just seem like a nice, cute, young family. But as I walk away from this quaint little scene, I cluck my tongue at the thought that both Daniel and Tara were not too far away from that elusive college diploma when they “experimented” without protection. Sure, Daniel has capitalized on his excellent computer skills to support his family and Tara has since played housewife and stay-at-home mom to their little brood. But sometimes I wonder…
It has been eight years since they got married. Will she ever work outside her home? Does she even dream about it? When their children are in high school and she decides to build a career, what opportunities would be there for a college-bred, non-degree-holding woman who devoted her life to raising a family without having once held an entry-level job? What would the workforce be like five or 10 years from now?
The truth is that I have enough faith in my kumare to believe that she is talented enough to operate a food or crafts business, something she might find fulfillment in without necessarily having to leave her house. One Christmas she gifted me with a tiny angel made of gold ribbon, nylon thread and pearls.
The most important question for me is: What if I were in her shoes? Where would I be today? How would I even cope with the kind of responsibilities she must perform? What if I had a kid soon after getting married six years ago? My son or daughter would be in pre-school and I would be paying for educational toys, cartoon videos, Dr. Seuss books, and dance lessons more than children’s clothes or candy. I would be fussing over what should be served on the table (whether I have the time to cook or not) instead of surviving too often on takeout food and junk food.
I might not have been a candidate for the frequent flier’s program. I might not have easily turned down free-lance writing assignments on account of the ridiculously low fees being offered. I might not be on my second year of the thesis-writing stage of my masteral studies. On the other hand, I might have finished my MA by now since looking at my badly dressed child would be enough to make me finish my thesis at the earliest possible time.
If I had children like my working peers, there would be no question about where I would be, or whom I would be with every weekend. Deciding which movie to watch would be the least of my concerns. Perhaps getting out of the house to join friends or to watch a movie would be a luxury in itself. But then I would know that, with my husband and child around, I would not even wonder whom I would be spending the quietest, never-ending nights with.
Since I am only a year away from turning 30, my brain has turned and twisted, full of what-ifs? Could I have done this or that? Did I? Did we? What if I lived abroad much longer and never came back to Manila? What if I held out much longer instead of marrying at the “young” age of 23? What if I went for broke nurturing my “other” career? What if I started keeping a diary during the times I traveled and got into one crossroads after another? Would my diary be of publishable quality today-the non-fiction narrative kind that publishers sell now? What if I had followed my urge to take up taekwondo years ago? Or the violin? What if I seriously saved while I was living in a suitcase practically throughout my twentysomething years? What if my husband and I invested more time and energy in all those business ideas we had? What if I told people who inspired me how they had influenced my life before they drifted away?
They say that there is no point in going back to some of these things. Everything, everyone we meet serves a purpose in our life, no matter how fleeting their presence. Sometimes we just don’t know what it is right away. Sometimes it feels like it takes forever to figure out the most simple things or understand our karmic connection to people. Aren’t we doomed to repeat the patterns in our lives until we get it right? Until we “learn” what the universe wants us to know?
Friends and colleagues come up to me and ask, often from out of the blue, why we don’t have children yet; why my husband and I live in separate houses; why we never bought a house; when I’m going to finish my post-graduate course; when and why this, why that. I’ve run out of excuses. I don’t offer too many explanations. I simply smile and that could mean anything. Let them go figure. I do not get up early each day to earn a living that will pay for a publicity machine that will satisfy other people’s curiosity about my lifestyle.
Sometimes though I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I wonder if what I do makes any difference at all. Here I am with a job that is fulfilling, and time to pursue other interests. The money I earn isn’t exactly commensurate with the number of years I have been loyally employed, but I don’t feel exploited either. I believe I still have my options. Neither is the manifestation of one of my dreams too far away. Considering my God-given talents, sometimes I feel like I should be doing more. Of course, I have friends whose definition of “more” is measured by quantity: more partners, more travels, more degrees, more projects, more gadgets, etc. I wonder if the couple next door ever feel that way? Or are they programmed to keep their family under one roof, well-fed and clothed, etc. because that is what demands their immediate attention? That is what’s more.
Maybe what I could use right now are more answers. More stories to tell my grandchildren. And more money so that eventually I can have a piece of what my good neighbors have.
Sometimes all we need is a good pat on the back to remind us that we’ve done the best we could, we are still doing the best thing we can and hope to carry on productively into the thirtysomething years. Sometimes we need a good whack on the back to tell us there’s nothing we can do about certain things and get over it quickly.
If there’s anything I should be thankful for, it is having choices. That I’m doing the things I do because I want to. That some of the things I complain about is born out of choice. There are things we do every day just to survive, things that sometimes push our dreams to the backburner, but nothing seems to happen by accident either. Even babies born out of wedlock are not brought by a clumsy stork.
Still sometimes I wonder.
