The good thing about being a young mother is getting to relive my childhood and still be able to relate to my kid. Watching "Hannah Montana" or going to Enchanted Kingdom is not as tedious or boring as it would be if I'm, say, in my forties or fifties. We get to swap clothes, read a magazine or do our nails together. She's not (yet) embarrassed to be seen in public with an old foggy like me.
The downside of this is that I am still young enough to vividly recall the experience of growing up as well, especially the kind that would make parents stay up all night. It starts with making new friends and discovering that there is a whole new exciting world out there that doesn't include the family.
I remember saying my first "P---mo!" at the tender age of seven because a classmate called me "maarte." I had not one but two crushes in second grade, and I told another classmate she's "malandi" because one of my crushes happened to like her instead of me. I told my mom I was staying at my friend's house to do a group project when all we did was watch VHS tapes and play Barbie dolls. And let's not get started on all the little white lies in high school, which made me an expert forger of my mom's signature for all those pesky excuse letters and permits the guidance counselor would require if I missed a class or needed my parents to know I flunked yet another Math quiz.
I wanted to grow up so fast, and I guess having my kid at nineteen is proof that I indeed tried to do it all so early. This is exactly what I told her when she asked me why I had her so young, and I could only try as much as I can to tell her that while I don't regret having her, being a young mother is so damn hard. I know it's still kind of early for her to grasp this. In her age, being a mom is like faking care of a doll: change her clothes, give her a pretend bottle and sing her to sleep. When she's had enough, ayawan na.
As a mother, I want to shield her from all those bad things she would have to endure, yet I don't want to be overprotective lest I smother her and she would turn away even more. I want her to experience life to the fullest, however tired that may sound. Cliche, yes, but true.
Last night, I accompanied her to school for a show the upper grades were presenting. We got there before it started, but all her classmates were already there, the girls all sitting together. Ging tried to squeeze in but they told her, "Puno na, wala ka ang seat." And I stood there helplessly watching her face fall and trying in vain to look for another seat. I motioned for her to sit with me but she shook her head no, and decided to settle in the row behind, with the loud, noisy boys she usually tries to avoid. I watched her lean forward to try to catch what the other girls were laughing about, trying to include herself, and I wanted to march over there and scold the other young girls for excluding my daughter! Ten minutes into the show, one of her classmates (who happened to be named Jasmine as well) took the seat beside her and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw their heads close, giggling and whispering. Mental note: get this Jasmine kid a nice birthday gift.
I want to tell her that there will be kids like those other girls, kid who will be cliquish, who will make fun of her because she looked different. There will always be people who will put her down hard if she's too smart, stomp on her harder if she's dim or slow, and just plain talk behind her back if she happened to dress or speak or think differently than the general public does. There will be "cool kids" who will dictate the rules, whether in the playground or in the social scene, and she will spend most of her time trying to impress them or to look like them, because if she tells them she doesn't care, that she is content with being "herself," she will be labeled a freak, a rebel, an outcast who's not and never will be "in" with the popular crowd.
I know because I was one of "them." In elementary, we made fun of the "bobo" students, the ones whose snot bubbled when they sneeze, who brought a baon to school when the "cool" thing was to buy at the canteen, who drank from old water bottles instead of Coleman jugs, the ones who got left behind to repeat a grade or don't make it to the honor list.
In high school, the geeks at the library got flak for not participating during Intrams; the "goody-two-shoes" got taunted because thy won't cut class to smoke or drink or play pool with us, or share their exam answers; and the "weirdos" stayed on their seats while we all paired up during slow songs or did wacky group numbers during the Acquaintance Party or Barn Dance. We made fun of the kids who had to put their names in a hat to get a prom date, kids who pooped in their seats or kids who are just deemed, well, different.
And then we all went to college and work and had families, and suddenly those little things that bothered us, that set us apart back then either didn't matter, or is what actually made us succeed later on.
I know kids are mean, and there's really nothing I could do to stop that. It's part of growing up, and I know Ging needs that to be able to build her own identity. The only advice I could give her - however hypocritical it may sound, given my own personality growing up - is to be herself and to never lose sight of who she really is. The memories of my kalokohans during my younger years are coming back to bite me in the ass, and I am becoming so paranoid it's not even funny!
Of course, I could just find those other girls who snubbed her and give them a piece of my mean girl mind, but then I realize they are just being kids, and I'm no longer a kid myself to indulge in such pettiness.
Hmn, maybe I'll just look for their parents then, right?
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