Grace

​This blog is my digital scrapbook: a space to honor the fleeting light of childhood and the simple artistry of a table filled with good food. Life often throws experiences my way like tangerines—bright, unexpected, and sometimes a little tart—but I find sweetness in every season through God's strength.

It has only been one week since I started working onsite again, but my heart already misses the little routines I used to have with my kids so much. I miss waking up beside them every morning, hearing their voices first thing in the day, preparing everything for them, hugging them whenever I want, and simply being there for all the small moments that used to fill our days.

I never realized how much those ordinary routines would become the very things I’d cry over at night.

And the hardest part is… I am genuinely grateful for this job. I know I’m doing this for them. I know I’m working hard so I can help give them a better future, a more comfortable life, and opportunities I never had. But if I’m being honest as a mom, there’s still a quiet part of me wishing life were easier financially, so I could stay home longer and take care of them myself every day.

I also can’t deny that sometimes, I feel jealous of moms who still get to stay at home with their children or work from home while being present for every little moment. I know every mom has her own struggles, and I truly respect that, but there are days when I wish I could still have that kind of time with my babies too.

Motherhood is such a beautiful but painful kind of love. You carry so much guilt even when you know you’re doing your best. You miss them while you work, and you work because you love them.

Soon, my season as a stay-at-home mom will come to an end. After years of waiting, I finally got a permanent job. I am truly happy… and I’m also proud that I can now help provide for them. Ayokong maranasan nila yung mga pinagdaanan namin.

I prayed for this work, and for this life.

But even with all this joy, there’s a quiet sadness in my heart. It feels like I’m closing a chapter I’m not quite ready to let go of.

For almost four years, I’ve been a stay-at-home mom—and that season became my whole world. And now, I’m about to step into something new.

Uuwi naman ako in the afternoon after class… pero iba pa rin talaga when you’re there the whole day.

They’re my lucky charm, my reason for everything. And I hold on to this truth—everything I’m doing now is for them. 🥺🤍

I was just there… distracted, on my phone (sorry, anak 😔), while she quietly drank her milk. I didn’t even notice when she fell asleep.

When I finally looked at her, my heart sank a little—like I missed something small but important.

So I stood up, ready to clean, to do the usual things moms do.

But then she woke up.

With her sleepy little voice, she kept calling, “Mama… mama… sleep, sleep.”

She gently pulled me back beside her, like she needed me there more than anything else in the world.

And in that moment… I felt it.

That kind of love that doesn’t keep score.

That doesn’t care if you were distracted a few minutes ago.

That forgives you before you even say sorry.

I lay down. I held her close.

And she fell asleep again… safe, peaceful, content—just because I was there.

And suddenly, I wanted to cry.

Because how can someone so small love me this big?

How can she choose me, over and over, even on days I feel like I fall short?

Maybe I didn’t earn this.

Maybe I don’t have to.

Maybe this is grace.

The kind that comes in tiny arms, sleepy eyes, and soft whispers of “mama.”

It came to us as a bit of a surprise. We’ve been gently teaching our 2-year-old daughter to say “sorry” whenever she hurts someone—even when it’s unintentional. You know, the usual parenting routine… repeating, reminding, modeling, hoping someday it sticks.

And then tonight happened.

The kids weren’t asleep yet, but we were already lying in bed, trying to rest. Our 8-month-old baby was crawling around, curious as always, slowly making her way toward her ate. Her ate, on the other hand, was busy exploring a mini cabinet—opening and closing it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Then in just a second, it happened.

She opened the cabinet door, and a cup fell—straight onto the baby’s head.

As I sat down and waited for our order, I suddenly felt weak and drained. Matamlay. I wasn’t in the mood, and I couldn’t explain why. It felt like something inside me wasn’t okay, but I couldn’t quite understand what it was. I knew I should be happy. After all, this is a new chapter for me—something I’ve worked hard and prayed for. But the worries quietly filled my mind, and I couldn’t push them away.

When our order arrived, we started eating. I tried to act normal. I tried to convince myself that everything was fine. But as we sat there, with food in front of us and people around us lining up to order, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

If you have a toddler, you know the "barbaric growl."

​It’s the sound that happens when a tower of blocks falls, when the "wrong" color cup is served, or when it’s time to leave the park. For my two-year-old, it feels like a switch flips, and suddenly, my sweet girl is replaced by a storm of "No!" and tears.

​I used to wonder why logic didn't work. "It’s just blocks," I’d say. But as I've been reading The Whole-Brain Child, I’ve realized I was talking to a room where no one was home.

​The House Inside the Head

I understand that not everyone enjoys noise or chaos. That’s valid. But openly expressing hate toward children—who are still learning how to behave, regulate emotions, and understand the world—feels misplaced.

Children are not mini adults. Their brains are still developing. Noise, meltdowns, and big reactions are part of that growth. They are not trying to inconvenience anyone—they are simply learning.

What’s more concerning is when adults respond with harshness instead of restraint. We can feel annoyed without being unkind. We can choose silence over hurtful words.

Not all children are the same. Some may have developmental differences. Some are overstimulated. And some are simply being kids—figuring things out one moment at a time.

We don’t live in a child-free world—and we shouldn’t want to. Children belong in public spaces, too.

My toddler picked up a banana and turned it into her “baby.” Then she started doing everything I usually do—heling it gently, pretending to feed it, covering it with an imaginary kumot, and giving it little hugs and kisses before “bedtime.” I didn’t expect it, but there it was—a tiny reflection of me in her.

I looked at her and couldn’t help but laugh with my husband. It was such a light and happy moment, the kind that quietly reminds you why all the pagod is worth it.

But more than being cute, it felt deeply meaningful. She’s watching. She’s learning. She’s feeling. In her own little way, she’s trying to understand what it means to care, to comfort, and to love someone smaller than her.