Lesson 2: Things aren't always as they seem.
One of my non-negotiables during my recent two-week trip to London was the daily Skype calls to my son. During school days, this would mean sneaking out during lunch break to make a call. On weekends, this meant early morning calls. I had to touch base with him even if it only meant saying a little hello and asking how his day went.
At some point, it felt like it had become routinary as he would respond to my "kumusta ka" with "Ok lang." I would sometimes ask myself whether the call meant anything to him and whether it was just more for me than for him. And then, his out-of schedule calls would come. He would catch me online and call, not realizing that I was in the middle of a meeting or training session. Some of my colleagues found it amusing and sweet. I found it a bit humiliating. How could I have forgotten to log out of Skype?!? (Thank God, another colleague's mobile alarm rang in the middle of a session, too! That made us two strange Filipinos.)
During one of our bedtime talks when I got back, we had an opportunity to do some kind of emotional dissection of his inner world. What I found out shook me internally in a deep way. On the outside, the impression I got of him some days was that he was distant and even seemingly disinterested. I would learn from him though that sometimes he would literally swallow his tears ("nilululon ko na lang ang iyak ko") when he missed me and was feeling sad. "Masakit nga sa lalamunan eh," he would even add. Now, that's a really honest sharing and a clear illustration of the body-mind connection. The formator and psychologist in me was quick to process the experience and reassure him that it is totally fine and even helpful to cry. I was so tempted to correct his idea that he should not be crying anymore as he is no longer a little boy. I saved the teach-in for another day and just allowed the mother in me to prevail: I listened, held his hand, and told him I how much I missed him too.
That evening's conversation was a gentle reminder to me of the importance of quiet, undisturbed, anything-goes time with my son. It was also a nudge - to always see things beyond my own lenses, to listen to what he is not saying but really wants to say especially when he is being his challenging self.
At some point, it felt like it had become routinary as he would respond to my "kumusta ka" with "Ok lang." I would sometimes ask myself whether the call meant anything to him and whether it was just more for me than for him. And then, his out-of schedule calls would come. He would catch me online and call, not realizing that I was in the middle of a meeting or training session. Some of my colleagues found it amusing and sweet. I found it a bit humiliating. How could I have forgotten to log out of Skype?!? (Thank God, another colleague's mobile alarm rang in the middle of a session, too! That made us two strange Filipinos.)
During one of our bedtime talks when I got back, we had an opportunity to do some kind of emotional dissection of his inner world. What I found out shook me internally in a deep way. On the outside, the impression I got of him some days was that he was distant and even seemingly disinterested. I would learn from him though that sometimes he would literally swallow his tears ("nilululon ko na lang ang iyak ko") when he missed me and was feeling sad. "Masakit nga sa lalamunan eh," he would even add. Now, that's a really honest sharing and a clear illustration of the body-mind connection. The formator and psychologist in me was quick to process the experience and reassure him that it is totally fine and even helpful to cry. I was so tempted to correct his idea that he should not be crying anymore as he is no longer a little boy. I saved the teach-in for another day and just allowed the mother in me to prevail: I listened, held his hand, and told him I how much I missed him too.
That evening's conversation was a gentle reminder to me of the importance of quiet, undisturbed, anything-goes time with my son. It was also a nudge - to always see things beyond my own lenses, to listen to what he is not saying but really wants to say especially when he is being his challenging self.
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