Mama and Papa Dearwums

When I think about my childhood, the first thing I remember is music. Mama and Papa met in a choir, and so a big chunk of my life was spent listening to them singing, making music together. I have about 40 godparents, an entire choir. Literally. That should say something.

Being the eldest, I was the one they ferried around to concerts and tours. I remember going from lap to lap of each choir member, all of them taking turns singing to me. I'd look at them during rehearsals either from underneath the keyboard stand, between Mama's legs, or clinging on to Papa's arm (which probably made conducting a little difficult for him, haha!). I'd fall asleep on Mama's lap to songs and laughter.

They started calling me Katinka during the world tour, and so most people who have known me that long (or who know me deeply), call me that. In fact, for the most part, I prefer being called that, especially in recent years, since it hearkens to days when life was safe and full of beauty.

When I was growing up, we'd have endless conversations about music, books, movies, faith, philosophy, family, tragedy, and everything else in between. Papa taught me how following my heart's passion will always be rewarded if I do it in pursuit of pleasing God.

Mama and I have our own language, and so most of the things we "talk" about aren't really uttered out loud. Our bond is more intuitive; most of the things I've learned from Mama, from graciousness, motherhood, partnerhood, womanhood were all passed through osmosis. I look like Papa (mostly), but people always say I look like Mama because she and I have the same expressions and mannerisms.

As a child, whenever I'd have a nightmare, I'd crawl next to Mama, my body finding the space her body has always made room for, and I'd promptly fall asleep. (I did this until I was in college, I kid you not.) Sometimes, when a nightmare was so bad and I'd be unable to move, I'd call out for Papa, and he'd come into my room until I fell asleep.

My brother Paolo and I used to constantly fight growing up, but when it was bedtime, Papa, tired from a whole day of teaching and a whole night of rehearsals would gather the two of us and tell us stories. We had Heeteehot and Hooteehat, shadow figures on the wall, who did all sorts of magical things. Paolo and I would forget about the day's silly fights and fall asleep ensconced in a world made by Papa's imagination.

Mama, on the other hand, would be the one who soothed us, made sure we were lacking in nothing, especially when Papa would be gone for months at a time for tours. While my friends had TVs in their own rooms, we'd only have one, and we'd watch TV with Mama. All the while, she would allow us to poke fun at her when she became overly emotional. (It really is the funniest thing ever.) My panic attacks started when I was 8, and I remember going to her closet to look for her clothes so that I could smell them. It instantly calmed me down.

When Mama was pregnant with my youngest brother, I was thirteen...and had chicken pox. And so I wasn't able to see Mama nor Jerome until he was already a few weeks old. That was hard. To top it all off, I had to spend my 13th birthday sick in bed. Papa used to bring me big bags of Skittles to comfort me (which explains my affinity for Skittles up to now). Jerome was the cutest baby ever, he was a delight to everyone. Up to now, I am honored that Mama trusted me with all the little things that came with having a baby -- changing diapers, preparing milk, feeding him, etc. By the time Lucia had come along, I knew how to do most of those things already.

Through the years, my parents, being human, had their own fair share of hardships. My parents, for all their attempts to shelter me, never really treated me like a baby (oh, but how I was...and still am!...babied).And so, I was never fully unaware of what was happening. They were always open and honest about what they were going through. Seeing how they are now, then, I am even more blessed at how far they've come.

"Oh, you're the daughter of <insert parent's/parents' name(s)>," has always been a refrain growing up, and so for a period, I rebelled against that, thinking that it was imperative to have an identity apart from them.

I thank God that I never succeeded in that.

When I look back now, I see how much I am a product of their greatnesses, their accomplishments. And their weaknesses, their failures. And all the beauty and grace that come with all of that.

Today, they celebrate 33 years together. I've mostly viewed them as parents, but being where I am right now, in my own version of parenthood, at the wake of my recent separation, I see them as individuals. A man and a woman who have spent lifetimes upon lifetimes together, still hopelessly in love, still funnily bickering, still wholeheartedly broken and whole at the same time.

They nursed me back to health by simply being what they've always been to me, with their unconditional love and support, constantly reminding me of God's presence. I could easily become bitter about relationships and marriage, but I find that impossible, seeing how wonderful their marriage is.

And so, Mamadearwums, Papadearwums, on behalf of Paolo and Jerome, we, Mimitoonghee, Oshobowbow, and Uthemoomee, forgive you (for all the mistakes you think you made), we thank you (for all the mistakes you think you made), and we honor you (for those mistakes you think you made, made you human, allowed us to be more forgiving of our selves for our own mistakes). We ask that you never change, that you continue being an inspiration to us and to everyone who has come into your lives.

Happy anniversary. I'd like to say my brothers, sister-in-law, and I (and Lucia!) love you more than you love each other, but that's an impossibility. We come pretty close though, I assure you. God bless you both always.