Family reunions – and in our case this means a gathering of 40 to 50 simpering infants, taciturn toddlers, self-conscious teenagers, harassed moms and glamorous (ahem, ahem) grand moms and their recalcitrant menfolk – can be a blast or a bloodbath or simply Dullsville.
It is a matter of choice and (political) will. All it takes after that is a modicum of creativity.
Two Christmases ago, I decided I’ve had it with the lackluster way we reunite.
I thought there must be something terribly wrong if I had to drag my still not too ponderous body to attend it and to threaten my children with fire and brimstone if they didn’t attend it with me.
“But mommy, all we do there is eat.” That from the bratty bonch.
Not exactly true. Because after partaking of the potluck buffet, the men drink while their women make chika while inwardly worrying how their menfolk can DUI them home without mishap.
Youngsters huddle into small groups to do their own thing: mess around with the videoke mike, play cards or gameboy, or just stare at each other morosely.
One or two would be so lucky to find an air-conditioned bedroom and blissfully sleep the rest of the night away.
And I, the most senior and most venerable living member of the clan, wander about the host house, trusting my inner radar to lead me to where the computer is and from there get lost in cyberspace.
to be continued
Translations for the non-Pinoy reader: bonch (my way of referring to "bunso" or youngest child); chika (small talk).
While I am at it, DUI means, of course, driving under the influence (of alcohol).