On weekends he will come straight from the airport into the car and enter our bedroom door, hair tousled, strong and sturdy and always oh-so-handsome. If I’m asleep by the time he arrives I will wake up to him nuzzling my neck or showering my face with a thousand little kisses. But their ritual is different: when she sees him enter the door she will rush to him for a bear hug, or if she is far enough still she will run and leap into his waiting arms like a happy little monkey. Then they’ll catch up and plot their time together. I say “plot” because for the most part I get nervous with their antics.
See, I grew up in a home where Mom and Dad were always cautious, maybe overly so. The yaya always had to make bantay, so we did not fall and scrape our knees or hit our heads. We had to always play in long pants, play safe, and never when it was too hot or rainy. We could play as much as we wanted, yes, but nothing dangerous that could potentially break bones — skateboards, climbing trees, rollerblades and the like; these were no-nos.