In a Race that Matters

My son, all of eleven years is now a tween going pubescent. When I look at him, I hardly see any trace of the once chubby baby who was addicted to Tomica cars of all shapes and colors that he was able to fill a three-foot display cabinet with his collection. Thank goodness he is past through the stage where he tries everything he sees on TV – from putting on a pair of handmade wings (which cost us five hundred bucks in 2004) so he could be like Aguiluz (Richard Guttierez’ winged character in Mulawin) to collecting Bey Blades, marbles and Tom’s World game tickets. Gone were the days of imitating Mom—trying on my undies sandwiched with napkin (which he rummaged from our plastic cabinet while I was at the office) and trying to pee while sitting or squatting. With a tint of sentimentality, I miss the days when he was just starting to write and he would send me notes with scribbles of a five-year old, expressing with all candor his dream of building me a hotel when I grow old wit