this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on May 23, 2000.
Yes, my mother is a stage mother. That’s how her friends call her. But my brother and I are not movie stars, although I’d like to become one (joke only).
My mother is an ordinary wife, an office worker and a friend. During our younger days, we were told that education is the best we can have in life. Maybe that is why as soon as I arrived in the house after my mother gave birth to me in the hospital, I was deposited in a box-like thing called a crib. My father told me that instead of having pillows and blankets in the crib as companions, I had books and newspapers. My mother told me that when I was still in her womb, she would read the newspaper and books for me. She would even ask my opinion about the news. She did this also, when she conceived my brother.
Would you believe that at age two, I could read the alphabet, distinguish the numbers, colors and the basic shapes? My brother learned the same things a little bit later, before he reached three, and without a tutor or anybody to teach us, except mother.
When we started going to school at age four, we could read pocketbooks already. Mama would ask us at night to do our assignments, after which we would have advanced lessons. Both my brother and I enjoyed this routine about studying that it had become our schedule–study, watch television, study. We never went out to play with other children, except when we had to attend family gatherings then we got to play with our cousins.
That habit proved to be rewarding. Every time the school year ended, we would get a medal or a certificate or both. My brother and I got to go to other schools and places because we were sent as representatives in different competitions such as quiz bee and the like. Of course, Mama would always be with us whenever we did this. Mama didn’t absent herself from work, even if she did not feel well. But when she had to accompany us to competitions or pin medals on us during recognition day, she would be more than willing to be absent from work.
Now you know why my mother is called by her friends as a stage mother? It is because she always goes up the stage to pin medals and/or receive certificates together with me and my brother.
I went to a different grade school than the one my brother finished from last March. And when recognition day came, mother made sure she wasn’t wearing the same dress she’d be wearing on my brother’s recognition day. For practical, safety reasons and for convenience also, I transferred to my brother’s school. I am known in this (new) school as the sister of Jerome, and not otherwise.
I still did well in my studies, although I collect less medals nowadays. I always told my former classmates from the other school, “Pamatay ang turo rito, salang-sala.” Even if you were in the top 10, but you didn’t reach the desired grade to become an outstanding student, you wouldn’t become an honor student. Getting 87 in the report card in this school is like getting 95 in other schools.
Anyway, last March 19, Jerome was featured in a show. He was featured in the segment titled “Gifted Child.” It was a taped interview held in school, with my brother and mother. My father was supposed to be with them, but he was too shy to appear on television. He was just there watching the whole proceeding. But the night before, I heard him coaching my brother. Although there was no script, all his tips about the questions to be asked came out. Weeks before the segment was aired, my father asked almost all our relatives and neighbors to watch the show. Even telling my classmates, former and present, my mother’s and aunt’s officemates to watch the show. My father even requested somebody to tape the said program, providing them with the blank VHS tapes.
My brother graduated valedictorian last March 30. On the day he learned this, my father came home earlier than my mother and upon learning about this, in less than seven minutes, he came up with a valedictory address for Jerome. Of course, when my mother came home she integrated her ideas with that of my father’s.
Days before and even on graduation day, it was father who was uneasy, forcing my brother to recite from time to time his valedictory address, in front of us and with a working microphone and amplifier to boot. It was my father who was misty-eyed during the whole graduation rites preceded by a mass, where my brother stood as the commentator.
When my parents were called to pin the medal on Jerome, my father couldn’t make a step to go up the stairs to the stage. My brother’s valedictory address drew loud applause. My father stood up and clapped heartily as if it was his first time to clap. I thought I had a stage mother, but I was wrong, I have a stage father.
