disaster management

I was lumbering towards the library one afternoon two weeks ago when my phone suddenly rang.

"Hello, Kuya!"

It was my mother. Her voice sounded strangely hushed, as if she were about to spill me the beans on some momentous secret. That stoked my curiosity.

"Bakit, what's the matter?" I inquired.

Ninang, my mother's only sister and my only aunt, was offering me a modest part-time babysitting job. Earlier that day, her bosses asked her -- apparently, she was the only teacher who had the free time and the willpower to rake more dough -- to teach extended day classes at Donna High for 35 dollars an hour, which translates to about two grand a month on top of her salary.

We tried to convince her not to take it, because she needed to spend more mother-daughter quality bonding time with Faith. (I know that just sounded like advice straight from a pop psychology book, but I doubt if any sane person would disagree with that statement) And besides, with all the household chores that I'm obligated to undertake everyday, I wouldn't have the energy to keep up with my cousin's needs.

Take for instance these sentences, which she usually blurts out with such assertiveness one might think she were a Spanish infanta and I were a mere slave:

"Ball play out!" No translation needed. If you still don't understand what it means after an hour's worth of hard thinking, you might want to consult a psychopathologist.

"AB-AB!" This needs a bit more explanation. Like most kids these days, she's become addicted to staring at the computer monitor for hours on end. This was her favorite website before somebody introduced her to PBS Kids. (Ninang, I presume. who else would?) Which, by the way, is another website. Sheesh. And believe it or not, she already knows how to click and drag the mouse! At two and a half years, she's even more computer-literate than my seventy-six year old grandmother.

"Dance-Hippo!" This refers to this not-so-funny animated video of an anthropomorphized purple hippo dancing in thongs, which I can't stand. I detest it with a fervent passion. It is not cute.

Anyhow. I know you've had enough of my tangential thoughts, so let me continue. Despite our attempts to dissuade her, Ninang was still doggedly determined to take it. "Andami ko nang utang," she lamented. "Sayang naman yung two thousand, pwede na yun pambayad."

We gave up, and finally agreed. "Why not?" my brother and I told her aloud, amidst our cheek-to-cheek grins. With a measly allowance of just 32 dollars a month -- my mother, ever the tightwad -- who wouldn't want some extra cash? Believe me, I had much more personal money when I was back there in UP than now.

And thus began this laborious experience of being yayo to the most high-maintenance kid I've taken care of.

A few days ago, I was reclining on the sofa, boring myself to death with Phil's antics on Disney channel, when she suddenly spouted, "Wiwi!" It didn't bother me a bit, because I just changed her diapers several minutes before that.

All of a sudden, I heard a faint gurgle that sounded like the sputter of a partially-clogged faucet coming from her. Dim-witted as I usually am, it took me more than a few moments to realize the obvious.

"Hindi yan wiwi! Poopoo!" I shrieked. Apparently unaware of my consternation, she just stared at me quizzically with her puppy-dog eyes, nodded, and pointed to her now-reeking-of-poopoo rump.

I grabbed her by the armpits and hauled her to the bathroom as fast as my stubby legs could carry me to avoid some more trouble. Trouble, as in, stinking smudges of brown on the carpet that would only come off with a pail of water and Lysol.

Unfortunately for me, I forgot to bring an empty plastic bag where I could dispose of her soiled diapers. I had to go to the kitchen. "Huwag kang gagalaw, ha? Stay put!" I commanded her. Moments later, I returned, and with the plastic bag in hand, I pulled down her pyjamas.

Ugh! What awaited me was a most awfully disgusting sight. Tucked between her legs was a steaming pile of yellowish and dark brown mucus-streaked blobs. No one had to do this but me. Ma was already snoring, and I wouldn't dare wake her up and rouse the Smaug in her.

While holding my breath, I told her to crouch on the still-too-big toilet bowl and grab on to my thigh. She did. And as she looked up to my contorted face, she smiled at me.

I was stricken. There I was, vexed and hot-headed at such a simple matter, while consoling myself with the far-off smell of newly-minted hundred dollar bills, when right in front of me, my only cousin, my own flesh and blood, needed my help. Would I be such an ass to begrudge doing my aunt a huge favor, my aunt who did the very same for me sixteen years ago? And wouldn't the simple delights of my cousin's toothy smiles and wet kisses and childish babble be far more satisfying a reward for taking care of her?

Shaking my head at my own silliness, I closed my eyes and started washing.