Letting Go, Letting Grow

(Son is pictured with his sophomore high school buddy, Justino Daniel, who went through Geodetic Engineering school with him.)

The morning was freshly breaking when I sent off my son down to the wharf. Dressed up like a young man with hair gelled hard into spikes that looked like a nail bed, he was the first one to come to the assembly area. He was going to Zamboanga City in Mindanao mainland, an hour's travel across the sea, for the first time in all of his 13-year old life without a parent towing him. 

A song intruded into my head, "Is this the little boy at play? I don'™t remember growing older.."  I found myself humming absent-mindedly to it.

Four weeks before that, my son fidgeted and followed me around the house and calmly told me, "Mom, my Journalism class in school is going on a fieldtrip to a printing press in Zamboanga to see how a paper churns out."

It was like a doctor's gentle announcement of a breaking news. 

"When's that?" I sounded like an investigator.

"February ninth," he answered imposingly.

"œAnd how much would you be pitching in for the expenses?" My elbows were bent out in akimbo.

"I don'™t know. We are staying overnight in a hotel, but I am staying at a friend'™s house there," he rambled.

"What hotel is that?" I sounded more irritated than investigative this time.

He mentioned a name.

"What?!" I screamed. "That is a dollar hotel!"

I could hear currency signs clanging in my mind. I just spent a five-figured sum for my computer's upgrade and here was another expense looming like a tornado although not damaging enough to rip off my pockets or deplete my bank account.

"No," I said calmly. "œYou cannot go, sonny. Don't you know that the weather is bad lately? The waves are so huge out in the open sea and a boat went down the other week?" I tried to scare him, but he was unmoved.

It was my turn to ramble, "And based on intelligence report I gathered from a friend in the Southern Command military base, Zamboanga is on a heightened alert following the death of those two world-known terrorists in the nearby province. You know that bombings are everywhere. So, I simply cannot let you go, and.."

"œBut Mom, everyone'™s going and I don'™t want to miss this out," he started to protest, his voice louder than mine.

"Can the teacher take care of all eighteen of you? I'™m going to see her and lay down my conditions before you may go."

"Awww, Mom! Stop it." He hated me when I plan to launch an appointment with any of his teachers.

"œNo!" I firmly declared. "œYou are definitely not going." 

I wondered if he heard a judge's gavel hitting my mind.

I saw him reduced into a boneless heap as if it was the end of the world for him. 

"Enough of the discussion," I glared my eyes with finality.

Call it over-protection. He lived a sheltered life. He was already in the fourth grade when he was allowed to cross the street solo. For me it was a great achievement already and I took great pride in it. Much later then, he would start walking home from school, taking the 500-meter stretch with a friend who lived nearby. It was a welcome development for me. He started going on errands in town or I would leave him at the barber shop and he just found his own way home. Our city was a small place where everyone knew everyone, but my fears were undoubtedly big and unfounded. He was my baby, the only one I have in this world. It was a difficult moment to let go of his hand - alone.

Now he has grown up. He would wolf down on any food in sight as if he went through a period of famine in the Biblical times. And he could sleep like lard, refused to kiss me goodbye in the presence of his classmates, and did not want to be hugged in public anymore but loved to cuddle with me in private.

There was no way holding him now. He has literally grown up and I could no longer pin him down. I have to let go of his hand so he could explore more into the outside world without me constantly by his side. After all, at the age of nine, I was already traveling solo from one province to another. I also made my first lone overnight boat trip from Cebu to Mindanao, stopping by my grandparents'™ house along the way. At his age, I was already doing inter-island trips. I was tough, independent, and not afraid of strangers. And now this trip to Zamboanga that my son would take seemed like he was sent on a military duty overseas. Crazy feeling.

Days later, I heard feedback that the planned excursion would not push through. There were important visitors coming to school and preparations had to be undertaken. A parent already complained of the trip. The principal was sure not to approve of the plan. Good! I heaved out a sigh of relief. My soul was at peace. I felt victorious.

We have not talked of the trip anymore in the next days. Not until four days before the ninth of February.

"œMom, we are definitely going on Saturday, the tenth, but we would come back and take the last trip on the boat on the same day."

Oh, no, not again! My eyes rolled. "Wait, I a™m going to see your teacher and make her sign something that she will take care of you," I announced like a warrior waging war.

"Ewww! You are going to reprimand her, aren't you? I am big! I can take care of myself," he reasoned out.

I a™m big! I can take care of myself. I am big! I am big! I a™m big! These words rang endlessly in my ears like emergency church bells warning the townsfolk of pirates stirring the sea and making way to dry land. The words brought me to my senses. He was there, towering over me. Tall for his 13-year old frame. He was bent over me like a giant eaglet with awkward limbs ready to take the unfriendly skies with confidence and certainty.

So on the day before the departure, I went to see the teacher to talk about my concerns. We talked lengthily until I signed a paper allowing my son to go.

Shoving the waiver to the teacher, I reminded her again, "Please take good care of my son and everyone else." I was short of saying, "œHe is all I have in this world."

She laughed nervously, "œYes, of course, ma'am, I will. I understand how you feel. I also have an only child like you."

I made my way out of the library where the teacher held office. My son met me at the foot of the stairs, eager to know what transpired from the encounter. He was playing a guitar with his friend, Justino, while waiting for me to come down. His eyes were big like of a tarsier's, the world'™s smallest monkey no taller than three inches long, but with eyes like saucers. 

"Were you done talking with her?" He asked without batting an eyelash.

"Yes," I replied. "I'™m going to the office now. I'™m kind of late already."

I turned towards the pathway leading to the school gate. With my 180 degrees eyesight, I knew his eyes were following me. I returned his gaze and called out to him, "Hey, you can go to Zamboanga tomorrow."

"Yes!" he flipped in delight as if he won the millennium lottery. His joys were immeasurable as he flashed his trademark Cheshire cat's grin. He was victorious.

(Reposted: March 2, 2007)