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Wednesday, June 2, 2010
I had dreams about my life and how I wanted it to be. Big dreams.
They shattered two years ago.
Now I simply lead a day at a time, taking cautious and weak steps ahead like the floor around my feet is going to collapse anytime.
Poof! Goes my dreams of many... Yet right now... I'm not quite sure that dreams are the way to go. Are they even realistically practical? Maybe I shouldn't be a spoilsport for you dreamers out there. There are, in fact, dreams that come true. Just not mine, anyway.
My son Isaac has big dreams. He dreams to become a pilot some day, and judging from the way he's living his life now, I reckon he'd at most end up a very very, exceptionally good writer and reader, just like his mother. He tells fantastic stories about his little toy trains, he loves to create characters like aliens up a tree and "nonos" that move his food.
And he uses big, bombastic words that have yet to carve a niche in the English dictionary...
That's my boy... And he's turning four this Sunday.
This boy... Whom I owe a lot to.
I owe him a happy infanthood... He was practically in the arms of a crying woman half the time of his infancy stage...
I owe him a pleasant toddlerhood... He was listening to daddy and mummy screaming at each other every weekend...
I owe him his childhood... It was spent practically learning to behave like a sensitive adult, being worrisome like a sensible person.
Most of all... I owe him love... Love that was engulfed by my own blinded, tortured heart. Love that he deserves, and didn't get because he was borned into a crumpling set of parents... It is all in the past, but still fresh in my mind, because all these had made him become who he is today... Too mature for his little age of four.
I wanna give him so much on his birthday... So much yet it'll never be enough. Nothing could justify the trauma he'd been through as a baby... The big, doe-eyed seven month old baby staring quieting in his mother's arms while his parents carried on a shouting match of 'why can't I move back home'...
Son, you know I love you... Don't you? Because... Finally... The shouting matches have gone, the tearful mummy no longer cries, the house you live in, has a daddy.
Happy birthday, son. I love you.
They shattered two years ago.
Now I simply lead a day at a time, taking cautious and weak steps ahead like the floor around my feet is going to collapse anytime.
Poof! Goes my dreams of many... Yet right now... I'm not quite sure that dreams are the way to go. Are they even realistically practical? Maybe I shouldn't be a spoilsport for you dreamers out there. There are, in fact, dreams that come true. Just not mine, anyway.
My son Isaac has big dreams. He dreams to become a pilot some day, and judging from the way he's living his life now, I reckon he'd at most end up a very very, exceptionally good writer and reader, just like his mother. He tells fantastic stories about his little toy trains, he loves to create characters like aliens up a tree and "nonos" that move his food.
And he uses big, bombastic words that have yet to carve a niche in the English dictionary...
That's my boy... And he's turning four this Sunday.
This boy... Whom I owe a lot to.
I owe him a happy infanthood... He was practically in the arms of a crying woman half the time of his infancy stage...
I owe him a pleasant toddlerhood... He was listening to daddy and mummy screaming at each other every weekend...
I owe him his childhood... It was spent practically learning to behave like a sensitive adult, being worrisome like a sensible person.
Most of all... I owe him love... Love that was engulfed by my own blinded, tortured heart. Love that he deserves, and didn't get because he was borned into a crumpling set of parents... It is all in the past, but still fresh in my mind, because all these had made him become who he is today... Too mature for his little age of four.
I wanna give him so much on his birthday... So much yet it'll never be enough. Nothing could justify the trauma he'd been through as a baby... The big, doe-eyed seven month old baby staring quieting in his mother's arms while his parents carried on a shouting match of 'why can't I move back home'...
Son, you know I love you... Don't you? Because... Finally... The shouting matches have gone, the tearful mummy no longer cries, the house you live in, has a daddy.
Happy birthday, son. I love you.