Read this in The Manila Times digital edition.
UNLESS more earth-shaking developments on the Philippine political front appear, this column will digress to chronicle life in and around suburban Baltimore, Maryland, where I am currently carving out the last leg of my professional career — grandfatherhood — not in the mold of a doting Filipino Lolo, hovering over Pinoy "tsikitings," but presiding over highly independent-minded American-born and -bred miniature versions of adults with proclivities of their own. Every day is an exercise in negotiations with 6-8-10-year-olds who fancy themselves your co-equals whose spaces into which one can't simply intrude. At 7:30 a.m. every weekday, the battle to get them off to school begins with Oliver's declarations: "I hate Monday mornings," and "I hate school" some other days. And "I hate Wednesdays" at mid-week. The middle child, Sylvie, is the hardest to rouse from bed. I don't see her smile in the mornings. Surprisingly, the eldest, Max, has of late been helpful, scraping the snow off the car's windshield, but his demeanor respecting the elders is left to be desired.
Philippine setting
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