tribute to mom

Every morning, all groggy and grumpy from being snapped awake by the alarm clock into the reality that bedtime is over, I rub my eyes as I traipse the hallway that separates the sleeping quarters from the dining area. From there, I can hear a solo concert emerging in the master’s bathroom to the tune of the faucet’s flowing waters. As always, there is harmony. She may have been my first music teacher, singing to me while I was still in her womb. I reach the dining table that by then will be all set for us. My hot chocolate still steaming – and oftentimes concocted with egg white – which she thought I never noticed but which I actually knew all along. I guzzle my breakfast and head back quickly to my room. I meet her in the hallway all fresh and perked up. She breaks into a wide smile, pecks a kiss on my cheek, hugs me really tight despite the odor clash and greets me, “Good morning, my darling, my little sweet…” A litany of good morning greetings follows. Ah, my morning has just begun…

I’m talking about the woman I have always looked up to since birth. She is the bestest best friend in the whole wide world, an angel with her wings arching across distances and time, an educator with an everlasting patience and loving attitude, a faithful companion, a servant-leader, a wife, and a mother. My mother. Everyday, I whisper a million thanks to the Big Guy up there who gave me to her – she, who unselfishly allowed the doctors to open her belly for me to take my first breath of air and whom I always run to whenever my mischievous antics get me in trouble with my father and my brothers. Of course! I am an only daughter and her youngest child. Technically, I had the biggest potential to grow up a spoiled brat. I would instinctively hide behind my mom whenever my “horns” or just sheer playfulness hurt others. But being an objective mother, she would expose me to the pain of facing the consequences of my actions. I felt the whip of the belt lash around my legs and the weight of the books on top of my outstretched arms. When she sees my eyes puffy and my nose red from crying, I know it tugs her heart with pity but she is firm in her resolve to let the lessons sink in.

My mom is a simple woman. Her kindness and her simplicity are both great attractions that pull people to gravitate around her. Her positive energies are so strong that despite the 40-year gap, (Yup, you read that right. She gave birth to me when she was 41.) she looks and acts as though youth was always on her side. She played with me when I was a kid, read books, or put me to sleep with her own version of fairytales. I remember she would emphatically and animatedly narrate the stories of Little Red Riding Hood and Cinderella while my dumbfounded self would just stare at her with all attention. Probably because it took a lot of effort to pull off one story, in the middle of one story, her eyelids would slowly droop while I couldn’t make out her warbled words. She would discreetly “head bang” to sleep. I wasn’t merciful as a kid and I would nudge her gently. She would wake up with a start and although she would sweetly complain, “Katulgon naman ko oi,” to which I would counter “Sige na Ma, pleeeaaassse?” oftentimes with a little hug and kiss, she would move on to finish the story. Now that I’m too old for fairytales, I do most of the storytelling. In high school, it was about crushes, experiences in school, and encounters with terror teachers. Today, I share to her my dreams for my future, my infatuations, and my views about life.

My mom is a very talented woman. She can cook really well. Just the thought of her biko, spaghetti, and pansit among all other dishes leaves me salivating and yearning to go home. She sings and dances well, too. She taught me to dance swing, boogie, tango, and cha-cha. And I am definitely looking forward to our Tell Him duet ala Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand.

My mom is a real beauty inside and out. She was a reyna in her younger years. Today, her crown incontestably remains with her. For us, she is the queen of all things bright and beautiful: of deep understanding, of sincere compassion, of true selflessness, and of unconditional love.

I wholeheartedly dedicate this post to my mom, who has been my strength, my inspiration, my confidante, and my best friend.

Ma, you once told me you and Papa are not “perfect parents.” I think there’s no such thing as “perfect parents.” Rather, I believe you did a perfect job of raising Manoy, Kuya, and me – perfect not in the sense that you never committed any mistake but perfect in the sense that despite all the mistakes, you were able to bring out the best persons in us. I couldn’t just imagine how hard it was to raise a stubborn and a temperamental child like me. (Hehehe. Must have been really hard.) But you were always patient, kind, and loving. There are so many things I love about you. I could go on forever. But more than anything else, I love you very much, Mama. For being YOU and for being my Mama. Happy Birthday!

P.S. Happy christening to my über-cute nephew Jakob Emmanuel “Yanis” L. Yap!

tribute to dad

Valentine’s Day 1998. I was excitedly tinkering with pink and red cards with hearts strewn all over, not to mention the screaming “Happy Valentine’s Day” printed by hands whose eyes must have bulged from lack of sleep the night before while fishing out words and sentiments from nowhere – when one card caught my eye. Sealed in a wild fusion of pink, red, and flesh, it momentarily stripped off the sender’s austere mien to reveal the loving side of him which I have come to know throughout the years.

Loving? It was something that never crossed my mind as a kid who was raised up in a pretty tight situation, where the father figure at home is the same head figure I see in the school corridors and classrooms every day as the school principal. A disciplinarian and a real professional, I was not spared from his critical eye at school, most probably contrary to what most people thought at that time – reprimanding me for violating school rules and yes, issuing me reminder slips (and an offense report as well). I never complained because I knew it was part of the discipline he tried to inculcate in the students, including me – I mean, most especially me, his daughter and his student. Unwittingly, I became more cautious and I brought that with me at home, maintaining a strictly professional relationship with him. My classmates and friends would often ask me how the school principal is like at home and I’d tell them, “Well, he usually comes home late at night, eats dinner, plops down on the carpet in front of the television, and I come bugging him with my one thousand and one questions about science, math, and history.”


At times, I would think it is a curse to be the “daughter of the principal” because I was a magnet of little controversies that went on like “…salig ra na siya kay anak sa principal...” and it hurt like hell because my father never taught me how to take advantage of situations where I’m supposed to have a “little edge” over the others. I labored for every little thing I have gone through. No special treatments. No favors. I did everything fair and square. Some people just didn’t get it and kept playing the same old tunes – in vain, though because my father kept my spirits strong, telling me to ignore them.


Yes, it must be a curse. I believe it the more I think of it now. Because I got the attitude, the vibe, and the enthusiasm to pursue my dreams. The discipline that he tried to instill in me is taking its toll on my being. Now I’m one determined woman, willing to take a lot of risks and wander far away from my comfort zone.


My father may be the strictest man alive on earth for most people (which I think he is not) but he always gave me and my siblings enough room to grow. Which father would laugh at you when at grade 3, you show him your test paper with a failing mark one point away from passing? Which father would strike up an exchange deal with a condition that you can go to a conference in Baguio as long as you go out of your shell? Which father would bring you a pasalubong of books every time he comes home from a board meeting? (consequently starting my love affair with reading) Which father, when your grades are declining, would tell you it’s okay because not everything in this world are graded? Which father, though no expert in the kitchen, would wake up extra early in the morning to “experiment” on sinigang with sausage and hotdog toppings when your mom is away on an official business trip? (In all fairness, the sinigang tasted good!)


There’s nothing really extraordinary about all those. But it’s not like he has to eat fire or walk in a tightrope to prove his worth. Watching me grow and guiding me to the right path is enough reason for me to say, “Pa, thank you. I love you very much even though I don’t say it that much.”


I hastily opened the envelope to find a message from my father. It read: “Stay sweet and loving. I love you.”


Life is just so good.