Kindermusik and The Learning Basket

I am a proud and happy Kindermusik mom. My little rockstar has been enrolled as early as two years old, starting from Our Time class under Teacher Suzette-Kho. We both have been under the magic of Kindermusik ever since and as most KM parents would attest, the magic is for real. She developed not just a passion for music but a love for learning and creativity as well.

In her current class, the Young Child, I discovered Teacher Mariel and her magical space, The Learning Basket. For several nights now, I have been clicking on her site and through it, found other sites as well. I especially like the activities found on the Homeschoolshare.com which little A and I have been doing the past few days.

Thank you Teacher Mariel for sharing. It does make the journey more magical than it already is.

Here's a glimpse of The Learning Basket:

"Hello! Welcome to the Learning Basket. I am Mariel, author of this blog, mother of Little T (three years old) and Baby Boy (less than a year old), and wife to Wonderful G. 

Motherhood unleashed the obsessive-compulsive in me and ignited my passion for early childhood development. It even led me to become a U.S.-licensed Kindermusik educator!

Join us in our journey of simple, creative, spontaneous, and mostly electronic media-free learning at home during our children's preschool years. I would love to hear from you so please feel free to email me at thelearningbasket at gmail dot com or leave a comment. Happy reading! 

First and Best Teacher   

      Why we are keeping our preschooler at home to learn and discover the world by our side

The Learning Basket 

      Describes what The Learning Basket is and what is in it

Before Five in a Row: Our Main Learning Basket 

      The what and why of the learning program that serves as the foundation of our Learning Basket

Life in this Shack

            At home in my universe. Photo by Jes Aznar

Inspired by the series in this fascinating blog, Reading My Tea Leaves, I'd like to share with my invisible readers the wonders of living in this tiny shack I call home. It's a small single-detached place that has been my abode for three years now.

It's so small, it could probably be a treehouse. Ideally, it's just for one person but there's a whole bunch of us who live here. It's noisy, messy and motley. There's lots of toys, songs and music. The clothes, the leather bags, the high-heeled shoes, I've managed to fit in but the love does not. Yeah, with love, we all spill over. We break at the seams.

Welcome to this tiny space, a kingdom I can call my own. It's far from perfect but here, there are countless perfect mornings and evenings.  Lunch and dinners. And everything in between.

This rented shack is lease to me so dirt cheap (which isn't really surprising). Upon entry, there's the kitchen. No, let me correct that -- a cooking area is more apt. And the smallest space to dine in. I managed to squeeze in a fridge, the smallest I've found years ago when I was shopping for home appliances. And a table for two.

Let's get to the bedroom. There's only one room and depending on your tolerance, the room can fit a dozen but that would be tantamount to being in a gas chamber. I did away with the bed. Just comfortable mattresses and clean sheets.

There's no phone and because I believe in no-TV parenting, there's no cable for the television as well.

There's a loft and -- surprise, surprise -- a small balcony upstairs where I take my morning coffee, and when the mood allows it, paint on a canvas.

Sounds good? Perhaps. But it really is tiny. How do we survive? These tips and lots of love and laughter.


DE-CLUTTER

This not to say our house is clutter-free. It's not. Upstairs, there are toys all over. On the staircase, there's everything from photographs to glitters to worn-out socks. But I try to make it a point to always remove the excess baggage whenever there's a chance. Everything goes away. I rarely keep stuff.



MADURODAM STYLE

The famed Madurodam in Netherlands is a miniature city. That's how our pieces of furniture are. Okay,  that's a bit of an exaggeration but just to drive the point home. I settle only for small, space-saving appliances and furniture.



AN EXPENSIVE COFFEE MAKER

The coffee-maker, next to the airconditioning unit and the fridge, is the most expensive item in the house. But hey isn't sanity priceless?

    Royal Coffee from Sulu about to brew. Photo by Jes Aznar.


KEEP A CELLAR

Seriously. A cellar doesn't need a huge space. It can be mounted on one small wall. It's worth the additional effort. If you're a wine drinker, that is.


    This is the cellar. Yes it is. The wooden shelf is handmade by Des Ferriols. Photo by me.


LIVE HAPPILY, LIVE A LOT

Being in a small space doesn't mean one has to live miserably. As the cliche goes, home is really where the heart is. Cheesy but true. My daughter has never complained of our tiny apartment. I have always impressed upon her that it's not the physical space that's important but our togetherness.

                                     This is the dining and cooking area. Photo by me.

                                     The stairs that lead to the loft. Photo by me.


    This is the bathroom, which is also the laundry area. This is me washing clothes. (I don't believe in washing machines)        
     Photo by Jes Aznar.


     Sometimes, I cook. Photo by me.

Single motherhood: muddling through the mayhem

My latest blog on The New Internationalist:

I write this on a busy Saturday afternoon. I had just emailed my last story, a few minutes past the deadline, and before I put the clothes out under the scorching heat to dry.

I am lying on the bed with sheets I have yet to wash. Near my aching legs are heaps of dry clothes I have to fold and beside me is my five-year-old daughter who is sick with high-grade fever. The thermometer reads 37 degrees Celsius at the moment, down from near 40 degrees last night.

The sink is overflowing with unwashed plates, the last one from a bowl of cereal, which I just served my daughter.

Welcome to my universe, a paradise in mayhem or a mayhem in paradise as the case may be, depending on how exhausted or sleep-deprived I am.

This is my life of single motherhood. I am a journalist and blogger, chasing stories while being a mom to a little girl. I juggle my time and sanity among my daily coverage, her life and the bills I need to pay.

Today, same as yesterday, she is sick and truth to tell, it is hardest when she is sick.

It is distressing to worry about her health when she is sick, but even more painful to see her in pain. As if all this is not bad enough, it’s also heartbreaking to realize that in the end, whatever happens, I am the only one to be blamed.

My daughter gets sick once in a while. There are no warning signs. It hits at the most unexpected times, much like a thief in the night.

I remember driving her one afternoon from one emergency room to another because her platelet count had hit alarming levels. She was there on the backseat, sick and pale as a ghost. It was just the two of us.

I didn’t know which to be more worried about: her high-grade fever or that she might fall from her seat.

Her health is not the only problem. Once, for one whole week, I was cracking my brains thinking how I would raise money for her tuition. It was three days to go before the deadline.

But somehow the great universe always finds a way and that is where my faith lies. That in the darkest of hours, when the going gets tough and the bad becomes worst, the universe figures something out.

Many people think that women like me tend to glamorize or romanticize the travails of single motherhood.

That we shouldn’t complain because it is a situation we brought upon ourselves, a place we chose. That’s what many say in this society filled with self-righteous people.

But if romanticizing is a way to keep sane amidst the chaos, then so be it.

The fact is, in the Philippines, there is a crop of women struggling to raise their children by themselves.

My dream is for our government to recognize this segment and to recognize that for every 25 people, there is a single parent, according to Newsbreak, an online investigative magazine.

The initiatives can be as simple as providing state-run daycares that can be trusted by single mothers for their children while they are off at work. Or access to discounted vaccines. Or discounts in drugstores, business establishments or in tuition at their children’s schools.

How about discounts in hospitals? Or better access to healthcare? Perhaps access to emergency loans from state-run financial institutions.

This is not to say that single mothers deserve more care than other segments of society. It’s just a stark reminder that we do need help from the state. I fervently hope it can recognize this reality.

The possibilities are endless, as endless as the stories of all the single moms out there.

Every single mom has a story to tell. And each story is truly her own.

I know of a single mom’s son who looks at every street beggar intently, hoping to find his long-lost father.

I know of another single mom who lost her husband to pirates on a desolate island in Africa.

There is a single mom who mustered the guts to attend the wake of her kid’s father, in full view of the married father’s legitimate family.

The stories are as varied as they are painful.

The lesson I learned from my own story is that no matter how much you try to stretch your heart to give your offspring the storybook family, sometimes it just doesn’t work the way you thought it would.

Curtains fall. The music stops. Dreams vanish.

The good news is that we can always weave better dreams and change the story of our lives. As I said, the universe always finds a way.

My story is woven with heart-wrenching reality and enormous love every single day in the rented shack I live in; with my beautiful five year old who patiently waits for me every night and begs me to stay just a bit longer every morning when I leave for work.

We’ve gone through thick and thin, shared heartaches and tears, endured each other’s screams and rolled over in belly-aching laughter.

We now have made room for the man in our life, a man who courageously and generously wants to share in our story.

This is our story. No romanticism. No glamorizing. Just lots of love, lots of pain. And lots of kisses, too.

Car Wash Day

packing, unpacking

I'm in the middle of a manicured forest to greet the new year. I asked Hitler to pack my stuff for me -- two shirts, some underwear, jeans, shorts, etc. But of course, here, I realized that I had forgotten (I always do) something. Slippers! How can I forget? And my grey cardigan. How can I miss that?

But then after all the packing and unpacking, all the road trips and the travels, the roller-coaster ride and adventures, I learned in 2011 that no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I fuss and stress about it and that no matter how many hours it takes for me to pack, I will never be able to bring with me all that I need.

More importantly, I learned that the really essential things in this journey called life can't really fit in my bag. You can't pack love, as Roxanne Krystalli had said. And hugs and kisses. And the warmth of an embrace. The smile of a child. Her laughter. That doe-eyed look when she wants ice cream or junk food or just some more minutes to play with me.

You can't pack a cappuccino maker.

And pain and misery. And anger. They shouldn't fit in the bag.

And so, I will carry on. I will travel lighter. Will (try to) let go of what's not needed. Will bring only what I need -- the indescribable, enormous love that can't fit in any bag or backpack.

Crossing fingers.

Happy 2012.

And to the love of my life, here's looking forward to more travels, from muddy paths and devastated patches of earth, to paradise, to hell and back.

Holding hands.

"Everything's Going to be Alright."

Once a while, the push comes to shove and all hell breaks loose. Everything that can go wrong goes wrong and you just wish that you're swallowed into a black hole temporarily and get back to reality only when things get back to normal.

This week is just one of those times. The nanny's passport application is hitting a wall. My external drive just died. The book project, which Jes and I have been working on for months now is NOT turning out the way we want it.

But that's almost ordinary compared to the real wrongs. Let me tell you how many wrongs there are. A friend has been diagnosed with cancer, stage 4. My child is in a shared room in a private hospital. I'm running out of cash. The health insurance won't pay for the bills because I chose a doctor whom I think is good instead of an accredited one. She has rashes all over her face. Her arms are filled with needle marks.

I was in the waiting room of St. Luke's when I got the test results of her blood test. She was there lying on my lap, tired and feeling very sick as I read the numbers. Her white blood cell count plunged to 1,700 from the normal range of 5,000 to 7,000. WTF! For a second, I thought it might be Leukemia. I broke down for five minutes before I got hold of my emotions.

Cruel this thing called motherhood.

BUT...

But Jes said everything's going to be alright. And hearing those assuring words from him puts me in the safest and most comforting place in the universe in these difficult and stressful times. And here we are, back in that place found between the heart of an enigmatic young boy and a paradise of a beach called Puka.

And that's where my goose bumps* come from.


* Goose bumps are the bumps on a person’s skin at the base of body hairs which may involuntarily develop when a person is cold or experiences strong emotions such as fear, nostalgia, pleasure, awe or admiration. They are created when tiny muscles at the base of each hair, known as arrectores pilorum, contract and pull the hair erect. The reflex is started by the sympathetic nervous system,which is responsible for many fight-or-flight responses. Source: Wikipedia (This is from a post by fellow blogger Jeanine Caron. Thank you for the inspiration!).

In the words of Joan Didion

It is 10 pm. I am here in a shared room at Capitol Medical Center in Quezon City waiting for the little girl to get well. It has now been four days that she has been down with a still unidentified strain. She has rashes all over her face and her arms are filled with needle marks, no thanks to the regular blood tests she needs to take every now and then.

Here I am, dead-tired and sleep-deprived but my mind is just so wide-awake thinking of what went wrong, and where in the world did she get this strain? What did I do? What did I not do?

In times like this, I am reminded of the words of writer Joan Didion: "I don't think it's possible to have children without having a sense that you've failed them. And that's what I kept edging around, in there. You are always failing them, and they are always your ... hostages."

Paano?

Kapag ang anak ay nababalot ng sakit,
at ang dating sigla ay nawala,

Kapag halos hindi na siya makahinga
dahil ang baga ay puno ng plema,

Kapag wala ng gana kumain
at ang iniinom na gatas ay isinusuka,

Kapag ang mga mata ay mugto at mabigat
at ang katawan ay inaapoy ng lagnat,

Kapag sa magdamag ay hindi siya makatulog
at ang tanging daing ay 'mama, mama,'

Paano ba maging ina?

When Life Happens

Growing up, I had those little life plans that kept me company. Those dreams were as varied as my interests. Some were as petty as walking along the Great Wall of China, seeing the South of France, owning a small farm in a province or as huge as living in a foreign country for a year or having an organization that would help save abused children around the world

I had a lot of dreams when I was younger. First, I dreamt of becoming a doctor, an aid worker and then a journalist. As a student, I represented my school in writing contests. Sometimes I earned a place, sometimes none at all but I was always urged to at least try. It was then when I molded dreams of becoming a writer, a newspaper reporter. I dreamt of working for a mainstream newspaper. I wanted to write, write and write. I wanted to write a book someday.

And then I also dreamt of being part of theater, of acting in a play. I also dreamt of painting a mural.

When I traveled to Japan as an exchange student, I fell in love with travel. I dreamt of seeing the world, of knowing other cultures of just feeling the universe around me. I dreamt of drinking wine from a café in Paris or to travel in the countryside of France and see stretches and stretches of vineyards. I dreamt of working in refugee camps, here or abroad.

I dreamt of earning an M.A. after my bachelor’s degree.

I dreamt of having a nice and simple house with a small garden. I dreamt of bringing my parents to a foreign country when they are old. I dreamt of the chance to take care of them when they are old, to ensure that they are okay.

At one point, I dreamt of a solitary life with no children or a life partner to share it with. It was a selfish, undomesticated side of me but I had that at one point when I felt I just wanted to travel and travel around the globe and see the places I read in books.  I wanted to see the snows of Kilimanjaro as seen by Ernest Hemingway and I felt that the only way to do it was if I did not have the responsibility of a mother.

BUT LIFE HAPPENS.

You realize that life doesn't always work the way you planned it and along the way, there’s a lot of changes to those dreams.

Here I am, thirty-plus and still dreaming. I have reached some of these dreams and have forgotten they were once part of those little life plans.  Some dreams molded in the past may no longer happen because other equally wonderful and life-changing events have happened.

Yep, life happens. The key is to recognize the things I cannot change and to just surrender, to release to the universe the fear, anxiety, resentment and anger and to just take in the magic, the wisdom and the love.  

As my child and I would often sing while traveling or just hanging around in the warm little shack we live in, “Que sera, sera (Whatever will be, will be).” 

(Salvador Dali, wikipedia)

(Not Your Ordinary) Grocery Day

Whenever I can, I plunge at the chance to see some of the little girl's many firsts. Today was one of those days. In between screaming deadlines and merciless projects hovering above my shoulders, I accepted her teacher's request to be one of the parent-drivers for the class field trip, her very first. I stole an hour from work, an hour which happened to be the crunch time for the newspaper, to drive them to Rustan's supermarket in Katipunan.

Yes, it was a simple field trip to the grocery but the kids really enjoyed it.  They were such a cute bunch, all revved up with excitement.  On any given day, I would skip the chance to go the grocery. I only do when there's nothing more left in the fridge except the smell of an empty fridge.

But I had a fun time today. Seeing the little girl so happy made the trip all worth the I-might-miss-the-deadline-induced stress. She was so happy to have her mom as one of the parent-drivers. It was also her very first field trip and she could not contain her enthusiasm. I was not able to eat my lunch because the time ticked like a bomb but hearing the little kids' laughter and cheers of excitement was all worth the effort.

Thank you Class 4's and 5's!

(Photos by me except the first one, taken by teacher Christy)