Call me, Baby

At 11.25 am, I try to stop what I’m doing, take a few deep breaths, settle in my seat and prepare. It’s going to be the best few minutes (would depend on how much he wants to talk to Mom, or his busy-ness with playing or other stuff) of my day. I’m going to call my son, if he hasn't beaten me to it yet.

Jared is now in Kindergarden, my 4 year old precocious son. The love and light of my life and my best friend (yes, he call me his best friend. Me, among the dog, our handy man Mang Edgar, his Tati, my officemates, and just about anybody who plays with him . haha!).

He usually blurts out the usual “heyo, mom”, and states the obvious “I’m calling you”.

 

Then, he’ll regale me with whatever left a mark on his memory in his 3 hours of school. And I found out, the elevators bringing the bags up to his second floor classroom, the Ate in school, the good and bad Miguel (his classmates), the singing and dancing and coloring occupied his time. Sometimes, he’ll say a word or two about the lesson when pressed.

 

Throughout the day, he’ll call me sometimes up to 12 times, only a few seconds each time and mostly just to say he’s eating something, or asking me where his train was, or just to prove he knows my office number by heart. No matter how short, it’s enough to make me feel like who I first and foremost am—a mother to this little boy at the other end of the telephone line.

*I write this to remind myself of life’s little pleasures, of babies growing up into toddlers and then preschoolers, and to always, always make time for my son no matter how crazily busy it gets at work.*