GIGI GOES GAGA

ALL IN THE FAMILY

I've been obsessed lately with mapping out my family tree. Perhaps because I have no children of my own and am aware that my branch ends right here with me, I've been looking backwards to see how all the pieces fit and figure out how the picture will look like after I'm gone.

All my life I've been told that this-and-that person was my cousin, but I really had no idea how we were related or if we were actually related at all. When you consider that the Philippine notion of extended families can transcend blood ties, it's not at all surprising to find out later on in life that you can (legally) marry someone whom you always thought was off-limits. Or the other way around, if you're not so lucky.

I'll never forget this one reunion we had a long time ago to honor my maternal grand-uncle. It was held over the course of a summer weekend at a mountain resort and so there were people bustling all over the place. A few of my second cousins and I gave up trying to figure out who our uncles and aunts were, and so we decided to simply greet all the adults we bumped into, kiss them on the cheek, and call them "tito" or "tita." Nowadays, given how we're now instructed to teach our children about deterring and avoiding child predators, this was probably a fairly dangerous plan. But at least we didn't disrespect anybody.

One thing I love about this Information Age we live in is that I can fill in the blanks not only with names, but also with interesting facts about each ancestor or relative. There are so many amazing people in my tree -- on both sides of the family -- who contributed so much to the history and culture of the country. It not only makes my heart swell with pride and a sense of belonging, but also reminds me of a legacy that needs to be respected and continued. Interestingly enough, however, when it comes to my grandparents' generation (and older) I can only seem to find research about the males of the family -- it's almost like the women never existed. Thankfully, that has changed (though not yet completely).

The logical next step -- for me, that is -- is to get to know all my first and second cousins. For some this means simply reconnecting and staying in touch; for others it will involve much more effort. I'd have to go find them and then boldly introduce myself, hoping they care even a bit. When I think about how once upon a time all our parents and grandparents grew up together and directly impacted each other's lives -- just as how my sisters and I have with each other -- it makes me realize that my cousins and I probably have more in common than we suspect.

My US-born-and-bred niece once asked me where she inherited her artistic and creative genes from, since both her parents are techies to the core. I was able to point out several members of our family who were writers, artists, and architects. I'd like to think it made her feel like she was part of a never-ending, always-expanding circle and that she was continuing to write the family history in her own distinct way.

And just this past week, my sister, who's based in Washington D.C. met two of our second cousins who were in town for business -- and who also barely know each other. The three of them spent the day in Georgetown, enjoyed the sites and, more importantly, got to know each other. My mother gets to speak with both their fathers from time to time, and I'd like to think their children will continue to do the same, especially since they have already begun the conversation.

For me, the best part of this discovery process is the bottomless pool of stories that await. For my two nieces -- who have no first cousins on their mother's side -- I hope it means they can now feel more strongly anchored to the Filipino side of their family, where they get much more than a few of their physical features from. My stronger hope is that their second, and even third, cousins will feel the same way about them, too.

WHILE HE SLEEPS

I got the news last Friday that a couple of days before, my cousin Olan suffered an aneurysm followed by a massive heart attack at his home. The news didn't connect with me then and somehow it still doesn't right now, even if I've actually seen him lying in his hospital bed at the ICU (although all those tubes were obstructing my view of his face). It just doesn't make sense, not any of this.

My cousin is -- as he's always been -- hyperkinetic and boyishly charming. At 40 years old, he also seems to have it all: a loving family and fiancee, a successful career, and -- at least up until last week -- his health. For almost four years we worked in the very same building though we'd seen each other probably only a handful of times. I suspect we're the same in the sense that we don't get out much once we're inside the office; I bet we both don't take breaks until we're off for the day. Still, just knowing he was slaving away somewhere in the top floor made it seem like he was always right there nearby.

And although I'm just as guilty of not dragging his ass out for lunch or coffee at least once in a while (we had lunch once and I made him pay), when I would see him coming or going I'd accuse him of being a rotten, no-good cousin because I knew more about the life of the guy who came in once a week to water my plants than about his. We also live perhaps 15 minutes from each other now, and yet we've never seen each other's homes. But I always assumed we would...eventually.

I never thought about this before but I suppose I also figured we'd be just as our parents were (and still are) and see each other during get-togethers and family gatherings, playing catch up until the wee hours of the morning. There really never was any reason to assume any differently, considering I'm especially fond of his family (they are as hilarious and as interesting as any half-hour sitcom familial unit) and I always intended to stay in touch.

I suppose I could end this post by saying something about how time is too fleeting and how it's important not to leave for tomorrow what we could do today. But I'd already known that (or at least I thought I did) before I saw Olan peacefully sleeping yesterday. What I am thinking of right now, however, is that I hope he hurries up and wakes up already. I still owe him lunch.

THE OTHER WOMAN

My family tree is almost as tall as it is wide and has more names of people whom I have never met and unfortunately will never meet in my lifetime. A few months ago, I planted a small one on Geni and it has quickly grown and expanded into a thriving orchard, with countless seeds strewn on every spot of clear ground, waiting to germinate.

What my tree doesn't show are the numerous epiphytes and parasites that attach themselves mostly to its male branches, whom I will kindly refer to as "the Other Women." Please note that I am normally not as kind when referring to these (unwanted) attachments, and I will not reveal their specific locations (at least, of the ones I do know about) -- not that doing so will cause any to dislodge itself. These things have no shame after all.

All my life I have been equally disgusted and fascinated by these creatures. Early on I assumed, although not quite accepted, that they would always be a part of my (hopefully, distant) landscape, as they forever have been. Sometimes I am obsessed with them; I've wanted to curse, hex, and even kill them. And once I nearly became one of them. (You can become what you are consumed by, after all.)

I think about them constantly, more than they deserve: I wonder about their motives, their rationales, and even their raison d'etre. I've tried to understand why they would choose to break all bonds of sisterhood, tear families apart and thereby quake society by rupturing its foundation. I imagine how they might face themselves in the mirror (do they look yet not see?) and I ponder over how they might reconcile what they do with what they know. And yet I also understand that they are not the only culprits; depending on the situation they may be mere accomplices and not the main instigators. Still, they are never innocent.

I've learned that mistresses and concubines have existed as long as the history of marriage as an institution. Men married women not for love but for practical reasons (form alliances, avert war, care for household or help till the soil, etc.); once they were safe, secure, and comfortable they found an outlet for love and romance elsewhere.

According to Binnie Kirshenbaum's thought-provoking essay "Once Upon a Time It Took Three" in the excellent anthology The Other Woman: Twenty-One Wives, Lovers, and Others Talk Openly About Sex, Deception, Love, and Betrayal:

For each strata of society, marriage was a purely pragmatic affair, an economic and domestic arrangement set up with a clear intent, a determined division of labor, and the pooling of assets necessary to survival. You got married to keep house and to have children. If you were lucky, your parents chose for you a husband who didn't beat you or a wife who was very fertile and very strong. It was fortunate for the man if his wife did not smell too terrible and fortunate for the woman if her husband was not fifty-six years old to her twelve. And if you were exceptionally blessed, you and your spouse came to care for each other, maybe even to love each other. Not romantically love each other, but you might develop an affectionate love, a tender and caring love. As a component of marriage, passion and romance were frowned upon. Marriage was a rational affair; there was an order to marriage. Rules and laws and honor. Nothing goopy.

So there. History and tradition have often been used to justify any status quo and I suppose there are many who will rationalize their infidelity and betrayal by explaining how both are really not so but simply practical applications of the way things are and have always been. How convenient: we always manage to find ways to defend our decisions and actions by relabeling them so that we cannot be accused of what we are guilty of.

The only thing I have to say to those who use the past to defend the present is that people evolve. Or at least, we should. I understand love, romance, passion, and lust -- I really do, as these have been major elements in my life, for better or worse. But I also believe that all these can make us better people; that they can bring us happiness without destroying someone else's. Not that I will ever understand how we can ever truly be happy while knowing fully well that it was at someone else's expense.

Apparently, the Other Woman can.

HOW TO RAISE OUR CHILDREN

We have this ongoing dialogue, my husband and I, about how we would raise our children. Or rather, our imaginary children, since we don't (and won't) have any.

Sometimes, when we're deep into these discussions, my admiration for my married-with-children couple friends grows even deeper; how do they manage to stick together despite disagreements on important, even crucial, child-rearing issues? Especially since my husband and I -- well -- we can't even agree on how we like to play with our cat. (Stop teasing her! I'm just playing with her. She's getting upset! No, she likes it.)

Fortunately we do agree on certain things. Public or private school (he and I both went to private, single-sex Catholic schools practically our entire lives)? The Warren Buffet School of Raising Children -- or Rick Hilton's (our children would definitely have to earn their allowance and, later, forget about an inheritance)? Start them in school early or hold them back a bit (my husband never got bullied and I never saw the benefit of my being one of the youngest in class -- especially in college when I couldn't go to clubs with my classmates because I hadn't turned 21 yet)? Would we go to Mass together every Sunday (we don't now)?

But there are a few issues we don't see eye-to-eye on. For instance, my husband went to a technical school and believes classes like history and philosophy are useless, while I believe that one of the greatest benefits of a well-rounded (liberal) education is to teach us HOW to analyze and think. He'd be judge and jury at home, while I would give the kids a longer leash to make mistakes and learn from. He'd push our children into "practical" professions while I'd simply want them to find and explore their passions.

And then how to go about the decisions we're both on the fence on? Religious or secular education? Cram their weekends with activities and more classes or give them more time to play? Buy them a puppy or kitten when they ask for one?

And lastly, there are topics I would never dare bring up; they're potentially explosive and since we're only talking about imaginary children here, then why bother in the first place? Like would we allow our daughter to have a boyfriend when she's 15? Would we discuss contraception with her at that age? How do we feel about laws that mandate the involvement and consent of at least one parent in a minor child's abortion decision? I'm not willing to discuss my answers with you all right now -- and I don't even have to live with any of you.

Sometimes I think having a child would bring us together even more, sometimes I think it would tear us apart. I know this sounds like a cop-out, but I'm relieved that we've decided we're both too old now to become beginner parents. Friends and family often assure us that we're not (they're still bringing babies into the world, after all) but I suppose it's enough that he and I agree on the most important decision regarding children in the first place: to have or not have?

In the meantime, our dialogue and discussions will continue. Even if we can't seem to agree on how to raise our senior cat, who always seems to get her own way anyway .

DIPPING A TOE INTO THE GENE POOL

One of my few regrets is that I don't know much (or really anything) about both sets of my grandparents -- who all lived to their '90s if I recall correctly. And I know even less about my great-grandparents, and nothing about anyone who lived before them.

It's my fault really, I simply wasn't interested then, at least when they were alive. All I know was that my paternal lola was the daughter of a wealthy man who ended up marrying a Tagalog poet/educator (the son of a tailor?) and worked to support her family of eight children by selling fish in the market until their lives became more comfortable. Dad said she was also frugal, a trait I clearly didn't inherit but which my younger sister Tina has displayed all her life without being taught how. Her husband, my dad's father, wrote beautiful poetry I never read until after he had passed away. I only found out two years ago -- by googling -- that he was one of the two men who translated the Philippine National Anthem into what was proclaimed the official Filipino version in 1956.

But this is all I remember about them. My lolo frowned his disapproval whenever I'd speak Taglish (mixing Tagalog and English in the same sentences) in his presence; he insisted we speak either one language or the other, it didn't matter which one as long as we did so fluently. He also used to show me his impressive collection of rare books and coins and always gave me boxes of Serge's chocolate bars whenever I'd visit him (which was maybe once or twice a year). I remember lola sitting down mostly, usually quiet and looking stern, and later it seemed she never left her bed when she became quite sick. My only vivid recollection was of her telling me not to eat so much chicken and pork adobo, which I loved so much as I child (and is still my main comfort food today).

I know just as little about my mom's side of the family. My grandfather was a civil defense administrator during WWII (which I didn't know either until the day he was buried); mom said that he would turn on a siren to warn folks whenever bombs were about to dropped by the Japanese but now I'm curious if he was actually the guy who switched it on or if she was just speaking figuratively. She also doesn't seem to know anything about his side of the family except that maybe he came from Pangasinan. To this day I simply assume that anyone with his surname is a cousin of mine and no one ever seems to argue with me about it.

My grandmother was the daughter of a former governor of Tarlac and the youngest sister of a famous Filipino diplomat and writer (National Artist for Literature, winner of Pulitzer Prize for international journalism), among many other things. But it quite bothers me I don't know grandma for simply who she was and not for her birth connections. She was smart and strict, and I suspect that one of the things she took with her to her grave was a remarkable life story.

But instead this is what I remember. Grandpa loved his Lions Club International, of which he was pretty active in, until the day he died, and he had a pen collection he kept in a huge armoire in his room. He smiled a lot but I don't ever remember him hugging me; still he liked to give me a pen whenever I'd visit (might have been branded with the Lions Club International seal).

My grandma once tried to cut my toenails with a pair of scissors (I later told mom that her mother tried to torture me) and she didn't know how to cook (so she couldn't teach her daughter how to either). But whenever mom would drop me off at her house when she didn't know what to do with me, grandma and I would sit outside on her patio, she would bring out her dictionary, open a page and point to a word and ask me to spell it. We did this for hours. I also remember that one of her pet peeves was the word (or non-word as she repeatedly insisted) inflammable and made me promise never to use it (I don't).

When I was growing up, mom used to repeatedly tell me how lucky I was that she wouldn't make me go to the market or practice on the piano the way grandma would order her to do when she was my age. Or choose my boyfriends the way grandma weeded out her suitors. (She tried so very hard to get rid of my father; later dad would gloat about how he was her favorite. She would smile but I never quite saw her agree.)

And that is about the extent of what I know about the people who gave birth to my parents, whose combined gene pools I come from. This is pathetic, especially because I have no one else to blame for my ignorance except myself. I'd like to tell my two nieces -- both American-born and raised -- about their Filipino side of the family especially because they barely know their grandparents who live in the Philippines, who are both pretty amazing individuals. As their parents were, I'm sure, but I just don't know how or how much.

I'd like to find out how lolo found inspiration to write, and if lola believed her sacrifices were worth the choices she'd made. I would want to know what my grandpa aspired for and if he was happy, and what my grandma believed in passionately. But I don't think I'll ever know -- heck, at this point I'd be thankful to find out what their favorite foods were or what made them laugh. Somewhere inside me they reside, they live on in perhaps a facial feature, a look, a frown, a love for books and writing, my disposition -- but I'll never know. So I'll find out as much as I can (calling all my cousins -- if you know anything, pass it on). I think I owe their lives -- which I missed out on -- at least that much.

SEEING MY FUTURE TODAY

I've been working out, sleeping more, eating better, using aging-targeted skincare products packed with retinol and vitamin C, wearing sunscreen, and keeping my mind active and honed lest it slows down. I'm ready for that time of my life when I'm no longer young, yet not quite old. (Even if my brain keeps telling me I'm still only 28.)

But just when I've found all the reasons why I'm at the threshold of the best time of my life, I'm freaking out again.

I realized a while back that older people are just extreme versions of their younger selves. For instance, that girl you knew back in high school who couldn't bear to throw anything of sentimental value away? Fast forward to 30 or 40 years from now and she'll probably have piles of junk -- receipts from 1993, bundles of baby clothing even when her children have already graduated from college, and boxes of unsorted yellowed paper and photos -- taking up every nook and cranny of her home so that she can barely see above and around them.

I'm observing my own parents and possibly viewing my future. They've become grouchier, more temperamental and moody, overly sensitive, and even a bit more eccentric, as older people tend to become. My mom's mother, for instance, had the driest, most sarcastic sense of humor of anyone I've ever known. Other people seemed to find her hilarious but when she was around I used to hide so I wouldn't be fodder for her entertainment. Of course now I regret not ever really knowing her, but that's a story for another day (she did drill me repeatedly on my spelling skills whenever mom left me at her house, so for that I'll always be grateful to her). So now I've realized mom is the same way grandma was; in fact just the other day my tita (aunt) scolded her, "That's what you get for that sense of humor of yours!" when mom cracked a joke that didn't go over well, or at least as she had expected or hoped.

I can see a little bit of both mom and dad in me, both the good and not-so-good. A decade ago I was seeing a therapist and one day the clouds suddenly lifted and the skies cleared, shone brightly and so blue when she said that it appeared I was trying to correct my parents' mistakes by committing the same ones and then trying to resolve them. I think that was the last appointment I ever made; there was nothing else she could have said that would have been more helpful to me.

But I'm also very different from my parents, even if I probably would have been better off if I were more similar in certain aspects (it would have been great if I had been born with my mother's killer legs, but my sister Suzy, alas, was the lucky one). What I suppose this means is that I can look at them and either see my future or what could have been, but that in the end it all depends on the choices I start making now.

Either way it goes, I know that ultimately I have my parents to thank for the fact I have these choices today, whether or not I have nature or nurture on my side. The rest is up to me. And dear God (if you're there) I hope I never become grouchy. But my husband hopes more.

FLYING SOLO

My youngest sister has never been married, not because there's something "wrong" with her or because she's "too picky" (accusations that have been hurled straight at her face, by the way, by supposedly well-meaning folk), but because the right time and the right guy have never co-existed at any one moment in her life. Mom says she's the smart one among all of us for recognizing this fact, and I tend to agree.

The irony is that among all us sisters, she was the one most likely to become a wife and mother early on. And although she's hasn't discounted the chance she'll be both someday, for now she's fine with the way things are. She turned down dad's generous offer to pay for her post-graduate studies and earned her Master's degree all on her own, and when she decided it was time for her to live alone she took self-defense classes, learned her way around a kitchen, and took public transportation to get to and from work (all so simple but not so easy to do when you've been accustomed to living in a household with people who cook and clean for you, drive you wherever you want to go and take care of most of your needs).

So I'm always completely baffled when I hear friends and relatives imply that her life is one not fully lived simply because there's no husband or children by her side. One of the hardest lessons I had to learn was how to be completely happy on my own and it took many (too many, in fact) years for me to realize that if you can't stand to be by yourself then others may feel the same way when they're with you as well

This NY Times article has been making the rounds of the airwaves and blogosphere lately; it announced that the majority of American women are now living without a spouse. But unlike that infamous Newsweek article published 20 years ago that declared it was more likely that women over 40 would die of a terrorist attack than get married, this recent piece of news is empowering rather than petrifying.

William H. Frey, a demographer with the Brookings Institution, a research group in Washington, described the shift as “a clear tipping point, reflecting the culmination of post-1960 trends associated with greater independence and more flexible lifestyles for women.”

“For better or worse, women are less dependent on men or the institution of marriage,” Dr. Frey said. “Younger women understand this better, and are preparing to live longer parts of their lives alone or with nonmarried partners. For many older boomer and senior women, the institution of marriage did not hold the promise they might have hoped for, growing up in an ‘Ozzie and Harriet’ era.”

Let me make myself completely clear: I'm not anti-marriage or anti-men (my husband and I just celebrated our 6th wedding anniversary, thank you very much). What I am against, however, are narrow definitions and stringent guidelines dictating how people can find self-actualization and fulfillment. What I am for are choices -- not just for women but for everyone. I'm not advocating that people should do whatever they want to at the expense of human dignity and peaceful co-existence on earth; I'm merely suggesting that we should embrace differences and uniqueness instead of pounding everyone into sameness because of fear and small-mindedness.

Of course, what I'm really hoping is that this shift opens our eyes to different definitions of the word "family" since the majority of U.S. households now no longer contain a husband and a wife. While I realize my views can be controversial, I do believe that successful and loving families include those headed by lesbian and gay couples, and may not even include children at all. And also, that a happy household need not consist of multiples but single units, too. It used to be that what belonged to the majority defined the way things ought to be; now we're beginning to understand that it's not necessarily so since the line separating the larger and smaller parts switches sides, albeit slowly and almost invisibly.

Elissa B. Terris, 59, of Marietta, Ga., divorced in 2005 after being married for 34 years and raising a daughter, who is now an adult.

“A gentleman asked me to marry him and I said no,” she recalled. “I told him, ‘I’m just beginning to fly again, I’m just beginning to be me. Don’t take that away.’ ”

Whichever choice we make, what's important is that we live like we're flying, not crawling, sinking, or drowning. My sister and I both have wings, neither is better than the other -- they only look different but function in the same way.

FOR THE BEE, FROM BUT NOT WRITTEN BY ME

In response to my last post, my soul blogger the bee confessed in my comment box something so real and honest, gloriously inspiring, and achingly true -- that to me it sounded like a clarion call to all moms by one of the bravest mothers I've ever met (albeit only on my computer screen, and again -- thanks to my blogfather Torn). She said, essentially, that she has no aspiration to achieve supermom status; that she only does the best she can.

I was reminded of a short essay the creator and head writer of one of my two favorite shows wrote for the March 2006 issue of O, The Oprah Magazine. I remember after reading it I felt an immediate and urgent need to pause for a few moments, to distill the essence of her truth into a form I could readily absorb and use, even if I wasn't sure I could do either because of the subject matter, one so mysteriously foreign and unknown to me.

So M, this is for you, from me -- even if all I did was read and re-type it here. And also one more time, just to avoid any kind of legal problems, I will state that the following piece was not written by me, but by Shonda Rhimes, creator of Grey's Anatomy, and published in the March 2006 issue of O, The Oprah Magazine (page 218, to be exact).

The night before my eighth-grade graduation, my mother stayed up sewing me a light blue gown that fit like a glove. She didn't work until dawn because we were too broke to buy a dress; she did it because I simply hadn't liked anything in the stores. This is a woman who can cook multicourse meals, grow prizeworthy roses, lead Girl Scout troops through the woods, and create Halloween costumes that made my friends green with envy. Did I mention she has a PhD? And six kids?

When I decided I wanted to be a mother, I approached an adoption agency. I was single and had always wanted to adopt. I ached for a child. And after seven months of paperwork and red tape, I was told there was a birth mother out there. The agency sent me her photo and an ultrasound of the baby.

But when I held the fuzzy black-and-white print in my hand, I started to hyperventilate. Wait a second, I thought. How am I going to be somebody's mother? How could I lead a Girl Scout troop when nature freaked me out? What if my daughter needed a graduation dress? I couldn't even thread a needle! I didn't know how to make macaroni and cheese!

In a panic, I called my mother. "I don't know CPR," I moaned. "I don't even have a crib!"

My mother was silent. Then she burst out laughing. "Shonda," she said. "A baby can sleep in a drawer. A baby can wear an old T-shirt. You can buy her food at the market. Do you think women in the old South attended CPR classes?"

I took some deep breaths.

"All a baby needs is your love," she said. "Mother is a verb, not a noun."

Suddenly, my definition of the word changed. Mother no longer meant "brilliantly competent jill-of-all-trades"; it no longer meant any one thing. I could be the kind of mother who traveled the world with her daughter, who helped with science projects and painted toenails. If we wanted nature, we could go to the zoo. If we wanted a great meal, we could go to a restaurant. My mother, fabulous as always, had just given me permission to be myself.

My baby girl is 3 1/2 now, and she doesn't mind that I don't bake her cakes from scratch. She doesn't care that her Halloween costumes are made by Granny instead of Mom. She's thrilled to spend her days driving around the Grey's Anatomy set in her Flintstones mobile and her nights cuddled up with me, reading. It's true, what my mother said: All a kid needs is love. And diapers. And, as I've discovered during my own journey into motherhood, a tiny plastic car and a stack of books helps too.

DYSFUNCTION UNCTION

One day last week as I was chatting with my bestfriend I blurted out suddenly, just out of nowhere and unexpectedly: My family is truly dysfunctional; we're all part of the tribe of the walking wounded.

And although I won't go into details here lest I be disowned or ostracized, I laid out my case to her. But because she's been my bestfriend since we were 13, nothing I had to say she considered news -- except possibly the conclusion I drew, or at least the finality of it all.

She asked: Aren't all families dysfunctional anyway?

I suppose, I said. But mine's an especially sorry example.

I can beat that, she replied, and proceeded to make her own case.

Okay, maybe you win, I admitted. Which I then reiterated after we went to visit and say hello to her father, who quickly yelled at us to get out of his room and leave him alone (his bestfriend had just passed away and he was writing the eulogy for the Mass that very evening; I probably would have done the same thing in my grief.).

And then I started thinking. Why is it that all these many, many years, I'd look forward to spending all my days with her family -- precisely because I found them infinitely more interesting than my own? What she considered dysfunctional I found highly entertaining. Then I realized: what outsiders may consider shocking, appalling, or even loathsome behavior coming from her father or siblings I found funny, even endearing. And I wondered if that's how she saw things on my end as well.

All week I heard stories of dysfunctional families from various friends. I heard stories of attempted kidnapping and brawling, infidelity and betrayal, of family members incommunicado with each other (for years, even), of children who knew they were adopted even if their adoptive parents kept the truth from them, of layers and layers of half- and step-siblings (both acknowledged and not), and of those who decided not to start their own families out of fear of continuing their family history of destructive dysfunction.

And then I started questioning my own beliefs as well, especially when confronted with gray areas. For instance, an ex told me during lunch that his biggest joy in life were his children and that everything else was "just gravy." Including his wife, I suppose; how did she feel about being mere drippings to the meat in his life's feast, I wondered? And because I believe that the primary relationship in any family is between husband and wife, I suddenly felt relieved I didn't end up with him after all. But then I debated with myself: have I gotten it all wrong, and I'm just being selfish ? Was my view of familial love and relationships the dysfunctional one?

Later during the week, the fabulous Nikki theorized that truly functional families -- although few and far between -- seem to produce boring individuals anyway. I squeezed my brain to think of families I considered ideal and came up empty, so decided to take her word for it.

A few hours later I thought of my bestfriend's own family -- the way things worked between she and her husband and their children -- and decided they were as close to perfect as families get. And then while on the same topic (it was an ongoing theme all week for us; my bestfriend and I competed to determine whose family was most out of whack) I asked her: what if our children -- or at least her actual kids and my theoretical ones -- later decided they came from dysfunctional families as well, despite all the thought and care that went into raising them?

I suppose, in the end, we all just do the best we can. And because there's no real formula, no set recipe to follow, no procedure set in stone -- and because as individuals we're all different and wonderfully flawed -- we make mistakes and missteps we can't take back. One of the true tests of character is being able to face the challenges and imperfection within and without ourselves, overcome them, and learn to function as productive (and hopefully happy) beings.

Nikki was right: perhaps unchallenged people are quite boring, after all.

OH BROTHER!

My parents gave me almost everything I wanted. They just didn't give me a brother.

For years I asked mom why she didn't make one for me. I had two older sisters who were too old to play with, and the younger one and I fought all the time. So I was convinced a baby brother would be perfect; I'd boss him around while he was too small to fight back, and when he got older he'd protect and take care of me (I thought I needed that; I got picked on by the other kids all the time because I was a fat crybaby with a multisyllabic name suitable only for great-grandmothers and pedigreed dogs). It didn't occur to me then that it was faulty logic to assume someone I bullied would be willing to do anything nice for me later on, but I was convinced if I had a brother, he would.

And because I was stuck with only my three sisters (OK -- the best sisters anyone could have), I spent the rest of my life adopting brothers.

The first one was my next-door neighbor Kenny. He was a cute kid with hazel eyes and a thick crown of curly light-brown hair. He was really sweet and fun to play with, but there was one major problem: when we were three years old he was always trying to kiss me, and while chasing after me would announce to all within earshot that he was going to marry me someday. I still remember hiding behind our piano, bawling, hoping I wouldn't be found by the kissing bandit -- not realizing that someday, being kissed by someone as gorgeous as Kenny would actually be a good thing. In fact, a really, really good thing.

Next was Ronnie, who was a few years older than me and my sister Suzy's godbrother. Although I don't remember now what he looked like, I recall I thought he was the best boy in the whole world and I desperately wanted him to be my brother. I remember his mom once allowed him to sleep over our house; he slept beside me in the bottom part of the bunk bed Tina and I shared, and we stayed up all night. Ronnie and I talked for hours while the rest of the household slept soundly, and for the first time in my really young life I felt like I wasn't a strange kid or a misfit, that maybe I was even pretty cool.

He accompanied me to my kindergarten class the next morning, and I proudly told everyone he was my brother. I heard him explain to all I misinformed that he really wasn't but that we were sort of related -- Ronnie felt it was wrong to tell a lie and thought if he corrected mine then he could save me from sinning. That was the last time I saw him. Shortly after, his family moved to the States, and Ronnie later died trying to save his drowning brother even if he, too, didn't know how to swim.

But the brothers that are with me to this day are the ones I adopted when I entered university.
I met them in Ateneo when I got involved in student government, and they were exactly as I always wished and hoped for. They were older than me so I could never bully them if I'd tried, but they called me Nermal because they said I'd bat my eyelashes and flash my dimples to try to make them do my bidding.

They all pretty much grew up together, as they were classmates from nearly birth, so they consider each other brothers as well. Who now have to put up with one annoying younger sister. I first adopted my Kuya (older brother) R -- he used to tell folks I was his sister, and many believed it. We both had round faces with full cheeks, dimples, and even our prominent birthmarks were in the same place. Just this year we found out we were actually distantly related. My heart leapt at the discovery, as if it were celebrating because it got what it wished for all along.

Then there's G, whom I have most in common with (music and gardening, for starters) and who never fails to make me feel like the most important person in the world; and P the heartbreaker, whom my bestfriend and I once had a brief crush on back in high school. There's also F, whom I fondly call Mahal (love) -- the one with the vulnerable spirit but the most tenacious heart, the one whom I'm fiercely protective of.

And lastly there's John (he has quite a popular blog so I won't bother disguising his identity), who's always been my hero. There are a handful of persons on this planet I can always rely on to do the right thing even if -- or rather, especially when -- it's the most difficult thing to do. I'd follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked me to, only because I know he would never want to lead me or anyone else astray.

I adore them all; I also think they have the best wives and that their children are the luckiest in the world. After a lifetime of wishing for a brother, I now have many perfect ones. And even my younger sister (whom I no longer fight with) believes I couldn't have picked any better.

Imagine that: Me, who often picked boys as if I were intent on unleashing all ten plagues of Egypt onto myself. At the same time. History has proven I knew how to pick 'em after all -- and not in the way my mother sarcastically says I do.

Mom wasn't able to give me what I used to want most -- but I found some of my own who will do just fine. Brothers whom I can sometimes boss around but who are still willing to protect me, who try to keep me on the straight and narrow but never hate me when I keep jumping off, who have never tried to kiss me (or ever wanted to, I suspect), much less want to marry me, and who talk to me for hours on end and make me feel like the coolest girl on the planet.

People say you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family. Lucky me, I was able to do both.