Memories

Several weeks ago, I found myself buying a newspaper on my way home. I had bought a copy of The Phil Star when I saw one displayed at the counter of that Ministop near Clark's maingate. During the time, I had to take a long commute as the bridge that connected Clark's peripheral gate to San Fernando was closed. That was actually my shortest way home. When the bridge was closed, I had to take a jeep to Angeles City's downtown and take another jeep that circled back using another route. It was a 45-minute ride as opposed to 15 minutes now that the bridge is open.

The newspaper was a welcome change. I had for years subsisted on news delivered online. I missed my college days when I could not do without a newspaper. I would buy one everyday, even if I had to skip lunch to have money for it. I would read the funnies then go the headlines then rant about the opinions in the columns and go to to my favorite part last. That would be the crossword. Well, on that fateful day that I bought that copy, I was not inclined to do the crossword, owing to the fact that it quite hard to concentrate on it when the jeep's rumbling past a thousand potholes. I browsed whatever caught my eye. Then I saw an article by my sister. Actually, half-sister (long story). She was writing about her trip to Berlin.

That made me think about the summers we spent at her grandparents' house. They never treated us any different from their flesh-and-blood grandchildren. We were always welcome. At a very young age, we discovered unrequited love from people who were barely related to us. Those were good times. I have very fond memories of growing up because of those short summer vacations we had there.

It is not without a tinge of guilt that I sometimes find myself crying when I think of those times. They are gone. I miss them. And now that I have a family of my own I find myself having a difficult time creating good memories for my son, the kind that he will remember and love to reminisce about when he grows older. Mostly, our days become shouting matches. He still has his uncontrollable shouting tantrums that drive me to my wit's end. I end up shouting to get his attention most of the time. That doesn't work. Nothing works, really. When he starts his tantrums, he will go through them no matter what. It may already be ADD or ADHD. We don't know yet.

Sometimes I blame myself. Something in me is what caused this, something in my genes. At times I ask God why He had given my son this burden and why He made me his father, the fumbling angry nervous wreck that I am. That's two crosses that he will have to carry for the rest of his life. I find myself depressed at times just thinking about all the what-if's. I just cry in frustration at the very thought he will have to live with this for all his life. There are even times when I just wish it could be better in a blink of an eye. But that won't happen. All I can do is pray that it won't get worse.