E·N·Q·U·I·R·Y
DEMAREE J.B. RAVAL
DEMAREE J.B. RAVAL
Crinkle Raval Gandionco
Sunday, 12 02, 2007
She fought, it seemed, with a desperation against having to be evicted from a dark but snug and warm place, a place so perfect and protective that whenever she got hungry, the sustenance was there without the asking — automatic and all around her. She would have loved to luxuriate in these surroundings but her tenancy was up; after nine months, she had to leave that rich and comfortable haven. But even at the last moment before her eviction, she held on to the cord that gave her life support, and it had to take a mighty push from her strong and brave host to send her on her way.
In such fashion, Kaitlyn Giulianna Raval Gandionco left her mother’s womb and burst into this world. A bit differently, if I might proudly add. Her birth was a miracle: the doctors saw that she would be emerging prone, with her umbilical cord wrapped tight around her neck, and that an operation might be necessary. But her mother, Kara, always the strong-willed girl, made a determined final push. And so on Nov. 24, 2007, at 5:33 in the morning, the team of doctors at St. Luke’s Hospital, headed by Erlinda Armovit and Cynthia Aquino, announced to an anxious and prayerful group waiting at the hospital that a 7.3-pound, 20.15-inch healthy baby was delivered normally.
I was not around at the moment of birth, but a minute was all it took for me to be apprised of my new social status. I received a call from my daughter Kristin, who could not contain her glee when she yelled out the word that is now music to my ears: “Lolo!”
So, here in the dead of winter in Kabul, Afghanistan, even as I ponder what could have happened had Captain Trillanes and General Lim taken a resolute stand at the Manila Peninsula, I am savoring my first precious days as a grandfather to Kaitlyn Giulianna, whose name means “pure and youthful.” Prayers of thanks are a priority. More than ever, I now understand more clearly the profound meaning of the Third Joyful Mystery. But I find it ironic that at this exact moment in time I am blessed with a birth, I am saddened by a death — that of democracy in the country which my granddaughter and others of her generation will in due time inherit.
Time flies very fast, one season follows another, and the cycle of life ordained for us replays in our mind on occasions such as this. Was it not only yesterday that my wife Malu was cradling Kara, herself a 7.3-pound baby at birth? Is this now the Kara whom we showered with love and affection? — herself already a mother to Crinkle, the nickname of Kaitlyn Giulianna, after the cookies that Kara enjoys whenever we visit the Good Shepherd Convent in Baguio City.
The great distance between Manila and Kabul, which I would have gladly breached were it only possible at the time of her birth, is now one circumstance that gives me time to reflect on how I intend to be as a grandfather to Crinkle.
If I had my way, I would encourage Crinkle to grow up with a healthy disdain for conventions, in much the same way she became a “lawbreaker” when she decided to break out into this world a little bit differently from other infants. She came out to this world prone — “occipitus” something, I forget the medical term — when the usual is nakadapa ang ulo and prompted the doctors to comment that “the beautiful baby is ‘matapang ang pagdating — di nakayuko.’” This early, I am told that she listens and looks with her mighty big black eyes as if she understands the goings on around her. That would do for starters.
But that would be imposing myself on her parents. So I resolve, with great reluctance and pain, however, to never spoil Crinkle rotten and leave the parenting to Kara and Chiko. They have been responsible enough to get married a year ago, and I know they are doubly aware of their responsibility to this bundle of joy. Grandpas Oscar and Mario and grandmas Nini and Malu will be there only to give advice and, of course, cuddle Crinkle and reminisce how it was when they had a child that small. Above all, as Chiko had aptly requested in his text message to me, prayers.
While I am writing this, I receive a call from Kara. She says she is on her way to breastfeed Crinkle. She is starting things well, following the lead of her mother who is a breastfeeding advocate. My only wish is that this is the last time she will tell me and Malu what she is about to do as a mother. A year ago, on her wedding day, when Malu and I stopped seeing Kara through the eyes of overprotective parents, we saw in her the strong-willed woman who would help us become proud grandparents. And indeed she had!
Grandparents never age. Sometimes, as Antoine de Saint-Exupéry has pointed out, they never even “understand anything for themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.” And so grandparents are forever young, a part of the cycle of life that the children of their children gift them with. The miracle of life means what it says: It is a miracle our Creator has pre-ordained for each and everyone of us. The new life that has been given to us grandparents keeps us in step with life.
Time passes. From the time Kristin called me up about the birth of Crinkle, I have received innumerable text messages and calls congratulating me on my new status. And I cannot wait to see my granddaughter Crinkle, hold her in my arms, and wait for her to utter those words I would love to hear from hereon: “Lolo Mario.”
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