my kitty Kat!

          My Only Daughter

I THOUGHT I WAS READY to have her, when Katrina, my eldest child and only daughter, came into my life. Yet, I was overwhelmed with anxiety and exhaustion as I went through the primal rituals of motherhood - cradling, diapering, feeding, and bathing her; getting up at ungodly hours to attend to the incalculable needs of this tiny bundle of energy. But for all the disquietude she brought into my life, she awakened my maternal instincts, and defined my womanhood. She was undeniably mine, as much my husband's stock as she was mine; as much my responsibility as my joy.

As my sedation was ebbing after giving birth to her, I could hear her incipient cries- sonorous and persistent, as though she were right in the room with me, although I knew she was safely cribbed in the insulated nursery corridors away. It turned out I was the only one who heard her cries. The rest in the room with me - my husband, my mother, and the maid - did not hear them at all. The connection that had been forged between us while she was still in the womb, was of such strength that we could hear each other beyond physical walls now that she was out in the world. When I brought her home, I almost fainted to see specks of blood in her diaper like she was menstruating. Mother and some older folks assuaged me by explaining that the blood was essentially mine, passed on to my baby during gestation. This infant spotting, said to be rare, went on for days. Despite my doctor's assurance that it was no cause for concern, I was panicky and apprehensive until it was over. I reflected on it later as some kind of magical bonding; a phenomenon sustaining our unusually solid connectedness.

Katrina grew to be the kind one would readily call her mother's daughter. I know of many friends whose daughters have physical appearances, interests, and ways that are markedly at variance with their own. It's as if their daughters have rebelled against them. Not my Katrina. She is not only a mirror image of me, she also has my inclinations and tastes. This somehow brings me to my own mother - Nanay - God bless her soul! We were six daughters, and yet not one of us could fit in as a replica of her by a notable percentage. Dad did say that it was me who resembled her the most in facial features, with my flaring nostrils, prominent cheekbones, and deep-set eyes. But the similarities ended there, since I've been more like Dad in temperament and sensibilities. There's a sister who may have Mother's unassuming, quiet ways, but she has Dad's patrician features. Mother must have lots of surprises, if not jolts, to see her daughters dressed up the way they did, or performed with aplomb before an audience. Although she wasn't at all house-bound as she was an elementary school teacher all her married life, she was shy and self-effacing that she would ask us - her daughters - to wear her new pair of shoes around the house so that they wouldn't look new anymore when she herself wore them to school. She almost always dressed down, was visibly abashed about dancing the customary waltz with Dad at certain functions, and was generally reticent at her workplace. I wonder now if she was actually pleased that her daughters were different from her, or did she wish they were more like her? It could be because she had six daughters that no one dominantly inherited her genetic traits, which is a case, maybe, of spreading herself too thin, facetiously so!

        This writer at 20 and her Mother at 46

On the other hand, I take it as one of my pleasures having a daughter who is like me in a lot ways; who bears a close physical resemblance to me; and who is affected in the same way that I am by most of life's stimuli. But for all our striking likenesses, Katrina is defintely not an extension of myself. We have our individual strengths and weaknesses, which we both recognize and tolerate. As my slanting handwriting suggests, I am more manifestly sentimental and passionate about certain things. She has an upright penmanship, indicating a practical, feet-on-the-ground approach to situations. Although she can be a romantic dreamer when she chooses to be, she can easily detach herself from mushy sentiments; whereas I am given to wallowing in melodramatics for longer periods. I can be monomaniacal about my trivial pursuits - " I've got to screw that cup-hook in, or there's no other time at all!" while she can easily defocus from whatever she regards dispensable at the moment. Although she is more down-to-earth than I can ever be, she appreciates my recurring flights of fancy, and has always been encouraging about my passion for creativity. On my part, I have always shown my appreciation for her innate spirit of competitiveness; her love of books that has made her more open-minded and less judgmental; her keen sense of family and roots which has both enhanced and tempered her pride; her being her own person.

Decidedly, she is more physical than I am. She can throw and bat a mean ball on a softball field; while I don't even enjoy watching any kind of ballgame. But then, I can sing before a multitude; while she can bring herself to sing more often only in her own comfort zone . What other little differences we may have, which have spiced up our relationship and made it more volatile than phlegmatic, are mostly influences of our respective generations. For instance, she roots for Alanis Morissette's brand of alternative music. I think it's… well, just plain baying. I used to love wearing chunky adornments when I was her age now; she avoids them. Basically, though, there hasn't been any major conflict arising from opinions, values, and styles. We have absolutely been a team through the years, despite occasional clashes.

And through the years she has given me plenty of causes for some motherly exultations. As an elementary pupil, she bagged a prize for declamation, and an achievement award as a grade three honor pupil. In high school, she was a star dancer and a winner in elocution contests. I remember, one day, when she was fifteen and a senior high school student, she gushed with excitement as she related to me her auditioning - and winning - the plum role in a local television production of a film-bio. In college, her mass com team- three of them - grabbed the Humanities Award at a general information contest in the university. She likewise did her family proud for receiving the Academic Excellence Award from the University of the Philippines in her second year.

Undoubtedly, these are feathers in a daughter's cap, which any mother would take considerable pride in. Yet, any mother, too, would agree that the real reckoning consists of all the seemingly inconsequential things that come to pass between her daughter and herself: the manifold manifestations of their interdependence, and their unbridled appreciation of each other, despite differences. All of which warrants a daughter's predilection for immortalizing her mother's memory, this generation's daughter to the next, each one being a link in perpetuating one mother's progeny. This is, after all, about the only true way, a woman - a mother - can live forever in the world.