Category: Dilly Dallies on the Dailies

Musings on the blessed, mundane, seemingly flat, and monotonous days

How to Be an Intentional Aunt: Presence, Patience, and the Gift of TimeBonding with My Extraordinary Nephew

Bonding with my extraordinary nephew

We don’t grow up in isolation with only our parents but within a network of relatives—grandparents, cousins, uncles, and of course, aunties. This communal setting where multiple adults shape our upbringing is where we can meander back and forth from foolishness to wisdom, awkwardness to confidence. Present in this safe space, aunties hold a unique power to influence, to nurture, and to be a trusted confidante.

As an aunt I feel that I am in that delicate in-between relationship with the children of my siblings as I give them guidance without pressure, or love without the obligation to discipline too harshly. But establishing a close bond with my nephew—this specific kid on the page of my life story—isn’t automatic. I feel that I need to be intentional, patient, and authentic.

Presence Over Presents: The Gift of Time

In building a strong relationship with my nephew, the quality of my presence far outweighs the quantity of material gifts. It’s not about being the “fun auntie” with a constant stream of treats. While he appreciates a small toy or token or any pasalubong, what he truly cherishes is our time together. He longs for shared experiences: he always asks when I can be absent from school so we can go out together and walk in a mall. He wants me to read him a book and for us to pray together before he sleeps. On a Saturday, he wants us to have breakfast together in McDonalds, after walking in the garden.

Our time together is unstructured, and we have ample space to breathe. I let the kid just be a kid when I let him chatter about his latest craze – he likes fire alarms and sprinklers by the way, not any other merchandise. I feel that I should show up in his birthday party, simply because he’d be looking for me. I feel that I must take note of his quirks and interests without demeaning them. This is me, being intentionally present.

Understanding Without Overstepping: Respecting Boundaries

Surely, not only parents demand respect from their children. But before my nephew can respect me, he should be assured that I respect his mother. His Mom has full authority over him, and my role is not to challenge her authority, but to offer alternative forms of support. Kids take note of boundaries like this, and accordingly give respect.

For example, if my nephew struggles with school pressure because his Mom expects good study habits resulting in good grades. I cannot cross the line by overriding his Mom’s ways of teaching him in the way he should go. But If the child comes to me with a problem, I must listen, and offer comfort, perspective, or even just the space to vent. My support is a supplement, not a contradiction. My nephew should feel that I offer a safe space, not a wedge in the dynamics of his relationship with his parents.

Our Rituals of Connection or Shared Experiences

Our relationship is built on routine and shared activities. Whether it’s a weekly Saturday walk in the mall, with lunch or a segue to watching a movie or shopping for school supplies in a bookstore, or something as simple as watching Netflix together, these rituals is where I will see most of him, and he of me. Our true, and transparent selves will bring us even closer and make us friends.

When I indulge him when he craves for particular fast foods (he really likes eating at pepper-lunch) or snacks (loves all biscuits, in fact, anything sweet), I am caring about him as a unique person. And as we pursue creative tasks and projects together, I am trying to foster a connection based primarily on his needs.

 

Being an Anchor: Accepting His Uniqueness

When he was a toddler, my nephew used to walk in the garden always stopping at every metal drain he saw and staring at them. He cried so I would cut paper squares with holes that resembled those drains. From four to six years old, he repeatedly drew the itsy, bitsy spider on the water spout. The sun had rays that could be straight or wiggly, and the clouds when it rains will have a grumpy face. Reaching his tenth year, he is obsessed with fire alarms and sprinklers.  In the mall, he takes pictures of these ceiling and wall devices. When he chats, it’s about Spidey, his imaginary friend, or about those fire alarms and sprinklers – their brands or whether they appear similar in every wall or ceiling he finds them.

His Mom understands him and worries about him endlessly. But this auntie has to be fully accepting of who he is and allow him the space he needs, even if I have no control over the spectrum of his difficulties. He may apologize frequently, and his struggles may be vague and difficult to comprehend, but annoyance is never an option. I cannot expect of him what is expected of every child his age – in his physical, mental, and emotional development. This kid on the page of my story has to be consistently assured that his worth will never be tied to a high mark on a report card or to a new friend.

Presence in Auntie’s Legacy of Love

My deepest hope is that when he reflects on his childhood, he will remember countless moments of being seen, accepted, and loved without judgment. I want him to know that he can always turn to me, secure in the knowledge that he will find a steady, loving presence that will never abandon him.

Our relationship is not transactional; I am active in his life story. Every engagement, shared meal, and our trivial moments together should trigger nostalgic, happy memories. But this is not going to happen by accident, but with a dedication to give him warm, wise, and unwavering support. How I embrace my role as his aunt reflects this understanding of what it means to leave a legacy of love.

How I Override My Inner Critic on the First Draft: My Page Scheme for Writing

Writing a first draft is always a battle between creativity and my inner critic. That voice in my head constantly questions whether my sentences make sense, whether my ideas are worth exploring, or whether I should even bother writing at all. But over time, I’ve developed a page scheme—a set of strategies that help me push forward, silence my doubts, and get words onto the page. This page scheme isn’t about perfection. It’s about overriding hesitation, keeping momentum, and trusting that the real magic happens in revision, not in the first draft.

Page Scheme #1: Embracing My Personal Chaos

My mentor once suggested a lack of ‘ego-strength’ hindered my writing. Lately, in my prayers, I’ve come to see this as a struggle between fear and faith, a battle intrinsic to the writing process. The instant a clumsy sentence appears, my inner critic descends, whispering doubts about the value of words, especially in our hyper-connected age. Writing, I’ve learned, requires a kind of prayerful energy, a sustained motivation—what I now understand as ‘inner, lasting drive’—a gift God gives, a gift I must steward responsibly.

To counter this, I’ve embraced a liberating approach: ‘If my sentences are awkward or repetitive, I can let them be.’ My page scheme is simple: write without pause, without rereading, without editing. Some days, the results are pure nonsense. But I’ve discovered a strange comfort in chaos, knowing that these raw, unfiltered words, however imperfect, can be shaped into something meaningful later. I believe this chaos is a part of the process God has set before me.

Page Scheme #2: Writing in Timed Sprints

I’ve noticed that when I have unlimited time to write, my inner critic gets louder. I find myself agonizing over word choices and rewriting the same paragraph over and over. To avoid this, I use a page scheme that forces me to focus: writing in timed sprints.

I write for two hours max, because this is how long it takes me to process a 1000 word essay at least. In spite of my desire to just write on and on, I am past brainstorming once I set my skills to word search, sentence structuring, and paragraph development. No overthinking, no stopping to fix things – just difficult to do – but I move forward, bypass self-doubt and get my ideas down.

Focusing on momentum rather than perfection, I demand from myself a last period within two hours. This method keeps my inner critic from interfering since it does not have enough time to take over.

Page Scheme #3: Separating Writing from Editing

In a previous reflection on writing, I introduced the concept of the ‘page boss’—that internal editor eager to correct every perceived flaw. This ‘page boss’ must be sidelined during the initial writing process, allowing for uninhibited exploration on the page. While crafting, the boss remains in its office, respecting my creative space.

However, upon completing a full draft, the ‘page boss’ is invited back, ready to refine and correct. The raw version, inevitably lacking crucial elements for a cohesive whole, is rarely acceptable as is. But the writer in me welcomes the editor, humbly submitting to the necessary rewrites—but only after the initial outpouring of words is complete.

Page Scheme #4: Creating Rituals That Sets My Mind to Writing

So I follow a routine: sleep early, wake up at dawn, pray and read the Bible, sit-ups, walk, breakfast, clear-up my desk, set up the computer, write – sorry, it takes a long time, but see, this works for me. If I just sit down and expect myself to start writing immediately, my inner critic often jumps in first. But if I follow a page scheme that includes a ritual—something that signals to my brain that it’s time to write—it’s much easier to get into a creative flow.

I also try to write in an airconditioned office space, never at home. So actually the routine above include the morning rituals of dressing up and commuting. Over time, my brain has learned that these small rituals eliminate distractions because my mind is set towards writing, and all my energy leads to the page.

Page Scheme #5: Setting a Deadline

Deadlines exist for a reason—to prevent the chaos of cramming and the disappointment of missed opportunities. With over thirteen years in a publishing house, another thirteen as a freelance editor, and my current role facilitating writing fellowships, I’ve learned to deeply respect deadlines for the sake of my own sanity. Every writing project with a clear goal—writing for a reader, not just for myself—demands a structured timeframe.

Deadlines are particularly crucial for grant applications, marketing campaigns, seasonal publications, and the layout and design process. Artists, like writers, require time to conceptualize and create. By establishing clear timeframes for each stage, I minimize detours and keep my inner critic at bay.

Trusting the Process and Moving Forward

Overriding my inner critic isn’t about silencing it completely; it’s about discerning when to disregard its voice. My first draft isn’t a quest for perfection—it’s simply a step towards completion.

By embracing my inherent chaos, employing focused writing sprints, separating drafting from editing, and adhering to clear deadlines, I can overcome self-doubt and translate my thoughts into words. Every essay, poem, short story, or novel I’ve written, even in their seemingly final forms, carries the marks of an imperfect draft. Yet, I persist, even as my inner critic attempts to impede my progress or halt it altogether. This page scheme serves as a constant reminder that writing is a process, and that revision is where the true work unfolds—a point on which even my inner critic agrees.

Writing for Pay: My Pay-Per-Page Freelance Realities

Writing, whether for pay or personal fulfillment, demands discipline, creativity, and commitment. However, the dynamics shift significantly when writing becomes a means of earning a livelihood. Pay-per-page models, while offering a tangible measure of effort against compensation, can sometimes overshadow the intrinsic rewards of the craft.

Temptation and Limitations of Pay Per Page

Many pay-per-page systems compensate writing according to the required output. Portals offering pay-per-page prioritize volume over value. Longer documents earn more, but that does not necessarily mean they are high-quality output, and the intellectual effort may not be rigorous. A short article might take longer to craft than a wordy piece, but in most pay-per-page model, the more words on the page, the higher the pay.

This is a desirable option for those who produce work quickly and efficiently. However, in many cases, speed can become an enemy of depth and originality. Writers who chase word or page count for monetary gain may struggle with burnout, producing rushed or formulaic content rather than well-thought-out pieces that resonate with readers.

Writing for Pay is a Responsibility

If I write on a pay-per-page basis, I have to produce a concise and well-written piece knowing I will not always get the compensation equivalent to my efforts. Writing, sad to admit, doesn’t pay, in most cases. Writing copy, however, or let’s say, content for other websites needs a diligent press on, to court, recruit, and maintain ‘clients’. Whatever writing skills I possess need to cater to the needs of a target audience. My byline doesn’t matter as long as I write content that potential target readers of branded products need. In writing for pay, I have to apply SEO dynamics, since data or information are useful only if accessed in the shortest time possible. In the race for SEO driven content to invite more traffic, copywriting eventually becomes a slog machine, where my authentic voice is erased, nullified, or voided.

Yet, only artificial intelligence is allowed to write generic content. I am still expected to produce essays that will stand out in the cacophony, requiring disciplined study, research, and analysis of relevant and useful references about the brand I’m writing for.

Beyond the Pay Per Page Mindset

To motivate a pay-for-page mindset that deducts all the intrinsic rewards of writing and to keep writing fulfilling, I regard the slog-machine-write-now exercise as my target practice. I will get better at writing if I write more, with diligence and disciplined flexing of the craft one copy at a time. Pay-per-page allows more writing, pragmatically churning information thoughtfully, and solely for its sake.

The real writing that I need to muster: personal essays, poems, flash fiction, aiming them for publication cannot get sidelined. But if my primary motivation is the money I earn through pay-per-page, I might stop writing these all together. Therefore, I navigate my identities as producer of meanings energized by this principle:

“Concentrate on doing your best for God, work you won’t be ashamed of, laying out the truth plain and simple. Stay clear of pious talk that is only talk. Words are not mere words, you know. If they are not backed by a godly life, they accumulate as poison to the soul.”

With or without pay, I can enjoy writing. But I confess that it takes faith and courage to embrace this identity and declare with fulfillment, “I am a writer.“

As I am Trying Hard to Write, this is My Page Commitment for the Long Haul

To write a memoir, I need to devote myself to return to the page, day after day, until my story is fully told. This memoir is not fueled by a spontaneous burst of inspiration, but will require a sustained page commitment. I have to be consistent, patient, and willing to sit with the material, even when I find myself in a bind for words and expressions. To maintain momentum, my commitment is to sleep early at ten pm, wake up at three at dawn, and write enough words for three hours before the sun rises.

As I set myself ready for the page on a weekend, performing the ritual—writing at dawn until the alarm stops me after three hours, exercising, eating, reading, walking and back to writing again – I ignore the fluctuating creative energy. I sit down, reflect, write, revise, and discover, knowing that if I allow myself to be distracted, I might lose a crucial thread or miss a vital fragment of memory.

Prompting Sustained Writing

As expected, my memories, the ones I can actually recall, are often blurred and hazy. But excavation is non-negotiable. I have to stir the dormant memories, to unearth those deeply entrenched moments from the past.

By way of a prompt, I am returning to my childhood memories: “When I was a child, what did I say I want to be when I grow up?” I have a general wish to capture my feelings about our family’s consecutive renting of living spaces, the idea of placeless-ness that has haunted my days. I have only a fleeting notion of the constant search for a stable neighborhood in those early years. Can a sustained page commitment unveil the emotions characterizing those transient days of my young life?

From here on, I go back to our first rented home, the ‘silong’ of a huge middle-class home, owned by two senior citizens, who had a charming Kasambahay named Basyon.  Flashbacks center around the relationship with this character who helped us in many ways that sustained our almost always threatened stay in that one bed-room apartment.

I will write on about this, until memory takes me to our next home, this time in a subdivision. The issue turns to relationships with other children in the new neighborhood. By this time, I was entering my teens and was finding myself becoming isolated from the ‘kababata’. The idea pivots to my notions of the friendships I missed at this impressionable age. Up to a point, this prompt sustains my commitment to the page.

In writing, I listed other questions which will help me process my memories

  • Write about the eleven year old me, taking care of a one year old sibling while Inay was busy selling beauty products. I met children in the subdivision but I could not play with them at all.
  • Recall a moment around this subdivision, when I felt too scared to walk to school. Where was I? Describe the adjoining pathway from the house to the main street. Why was walking in that eskinita scary?
  • Describe an ordinary walk in detail—the walk to school, and the walk back home from school – this is mainly about the city sidewalks, the busy hardware stores, the bakery, the old market etc. and how they feature in my memory.

Even if at some point I know that I need to somehow slow down, or if I meet a road block, I hope to keep the writing flowing through these prompts.

Emotional Endurance and Page Commitment

What about emotional endurance? My memoir is not going to be simply a collection of highs and lows of curated anecdotes. In exploring my experiences I come face to face with difficult truths that are hurting me again; those narratives are still without closure after decades of forgetting. I sometimes hesitate to go on because the story will have turned more sour, and I tend to not describe too concretely to dodge the impact of its rawness.

Yet part of my page commitment is this sitting with discomfort and writing through resistance. While I acknowledge the difficulty, I cannot abandon the work altogether. So I try to manage the emotional weight of the experiences through a deliberate alternating of the heavy and the light materials. If on this day, my writing delved into grief or loss, tomorrow, I might try to focus on a more mundane process or moment.

I just did something like this today: After yesterday’s heavy revision and editing of a chapter in a Y.A. Novel I am currently writing, I turn back to organizing a chronology of events, listing possible chapters, and letting go of the burden of the previous page for a while. My page commitment is to sustain momentum by keeping my emotions at bay, without letting any lows of the past or present overwhelm me.

But how deeply should I go back? What will be my angle or perspective in retelling such experiences? There is no way to revive a trauma in real time, but I tell myself that recording suffering is not the mere page commitment here, but understanding its essence, how it figured in the weave of my being.

A Page Commitment is to Structure the Narrative

Without direction, the memoir will end up as disjointed fragments. The outline I wrote during the initial brainstorming for this memoir has been changing. As I write, this outline revises itself, proving that I can still be guided by it, even in how I can write beyond it. When mapping out the chapters beforehand, I can only think of major key moments. But as I write, new patterns are emerging, sometimes taking over the key moments I identified.

But just to set myself on the move to meet my page commitment, I still identified milestones to make me think of the memoir not as a massive project but as a series of key moments. I don’t keep a writing log, but I do have a habit checker, where I simply tick whether I’ve done anything at all on the page today. This reinforces my commitment to the page, even one section at a time.  

Eventually, I may or may not incorporate a story fragment in the whole narrative. In going back and forth into written and rewritten sections, perhaps refining the language making sure they cohere, or just staring at a word and checking syntax and diction, I adhere to these parts in my sheer commitment to the page.

Personal Rewards of Commitment

The memoir itself will be my reward, of course. But the process, when I’m able to get down to each and every task I committed myself to write or do, is also satisfying. The slow accumulation of pages eventually thrills me and boosts my confidence. Another reward is a daily discovery of what and what cannot be done, and the skill emerging from the wisdom.

My page commitment is not just about finishing a book; it is about developing my relationship with the page—showing up, writing through uncertainty, and believing that every page, no matter how small, contributes to a larger whole. This is plain and simple discipline toward a more skill full storytelling and deeper self-understanding. Through the memoir process, I am realizing that my story will unfold on its own time, not on my demand.

Breakfast and Sprinkler Hunt

The morning starts the way most with Joseph do—familiar and full of the small wonders only he can bring. We’re sitting in a McDonald’s booth, a warm glow of sunshine cutting through the fast-food ambiance. It’s just past eight AM, the lull between a wake-up grogginess and some minutes of slow walking. The clatter of trays and the hum of conversation swirl around us, but Joseph is tethered to the tablet screen in front of him, fingers swiping with practiced ease, eyes locked in concentration.

There is a quiet here that’s deceiving, a bridge between generations. I watch as his brows furrow, his mouth parts slightly—just a sliver. It’s one of his habits when he’s deep in thought, navigating his favorite cartoon, or maybe it’s a you tube video that’s drawn him in this time. I sip my coffee, taking in the gentle steam rising from the rim of the disposable glass. The moment is precious in its simplicity.

“Joseph, here comes your chicken fillet with rice.” I reach out and push the tray a little closer to him, the smell of hash browns and gravy lifting slightly from the paper plates. He snaps out of his digital daze and looks up at me with eyes that hold a child’s boundless energy and the growing awareness of the world. He grins, dropping the tablet, hands reaching to uncover the tiny plastic cups of gravy. “You eat the egg Ninang, I don’t like it, it’s burnt.”

The click of the tablet locking is a sound I’ve come to know as a tiny victory—technology yielding to the present, even if for a brief moment. Joseph eats with focus, but between bites, he pauses. I follow his gaze to the patterned tiles of the ceiling, speckled white with rows of recessed lights and the occasional shadow of a duct.

“I can’t find any sprinklers here Ninang.” McDonald just renovated their site and we are still adjusting ourselves to the new look and ambiance. Joseph was very serious with his comment as if he were a detective and this ceiling, the latest mystery.

“Probably they hid them behind the walls” I say.

“That’s funny, how can they hide the fire alarm and sprinklers?” He snapped, slightly annoyed, even as he bites a mouth-size of the fillet.

“You find them anywhere anyway. They’re the same anywhere.”

He ignores my remark and finishes his food. Breakfast disappears between his comments over his imaginary friend, Spidey, this finger crawling creature who always has to climb a water spout. Joseph has invented many iterations of this spider, giving it a raincoat, an umbrella and goggles so the rain water will not wash it away and drown it. This, aside from hunting sprinklers, is his other obsession. And he has given sun and clouds various expressions depending on his mood. He cuts colored paper into sun and clouds, gluing them one on top of the other, marking the clouds with sadness and a frown, and the sun, with glowing brightness.

As for the sprinklers, he takes pictures of those using his tablet camera.

After breakfast at McDo, we’re on our way to the condominium garden area, where we will just sit down and laze away the hours until eleven AM, when we can finally proceed to the mall. To Joseph, the mall is more than a hub of shops; it’s a sky filled with secrets, a landscape of fire alarms and sprinklers waiting to be spotted and studied.

When we’re finally able to walk into a mall, the cool blast of air conditioning greets us, carrying the smell of fresh donuts and new shoes. Joseph’s steps quicken, his head tipping back until he’s looking straight up, eyes wide like an explorer charting unmarked territory. I slow my pace to match his, each step deliberate so as not to rush the sacred ritual of discovery.

“There!” he says, pointing out a cluster of sprinkler heads. He snaps a picture of the silver disks gleaming faintly, as they are caught in the glow of the recessed lights. Joseph’s face is lit not just by the ceiling’s reflections but by something more—a bright and earnest joy. I look up too, my neck craning as if seeing them might let me share a fraction of the wonder that fills him.

“See the little glass tube in the middle?” he asks, his finger tracing a tiny arc in the air.

I nod. He tells me the brand of that sprinkler, and holds me like a captive student in a classroom. It’s easy to miss the magic in something as mundane as a fire alarm or a sprinkler system, but here with Joseph, under this sky of steel and plastic, it’s impossible to look away.

An older couple shuffles past us, and I catch their curiosity as they follow our upward gaze. I smile back at them, without apology. This was an unspoken acknowledgment of a moment that feels ordinary but isn’t. As the two of us walk further, each corridor of the mall became a constellation of ceiling features. For Joseph, it’s a quest; for me, it’s seeing wonder through his eyes, the pure, undiluted kind that makes any day feel extraordinary.

We sat on a bench near the fountain, the gentle rush of water mixing with the distant melody of a store’s playlist. Joseph climbs sits cross-legged as if he’s at home on a couch and goes back to his tablet, picking on the new snaps of sprinklers. He will use them later to copy and paste and give a color in a new canvas of his own making. The ceiling above is vaulted, a marvel of steel beams crisscrossing each other like a web, and sprinkled—no pun intended—with tiny red fire alarms.

“There are more of them in malls than anywhere else,” he says, sage-like as he swipes at the new pictures, his voice mingling with the sound of splashing water. I chuckle, ruffling his hair as he bats me away with a grin.

“I will count them.” Then, he’s on his feet, again, eyes sweeping upward, already counting, one, two, three… His voice fades as my gaze drops back to eye level, taking in the scene, the people milling around us, oblivious to the universe above them. But Joseph isn’t. And because of him, neither am I.

Time stretches, an elastic band that holds us together, anchored in this shared ritual of ceiling-staring. He’s at twelve when he pauses, tilting his head like he’s just realized something new. He turns to me, eyes sparkling with a blend of excitement and sincerity.

“They’re amazing, they’re everywhere. Look!” His voice gets louder. “What happens if there’s a fire Ninang?” He asks.

“You know, the sprinklers will put away the fire.” I answer.

He nods grinning, “I know.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that wraps around you when you’re aware of the time passing, even as you savor every second of it. The mall spins its seamless life cycle, but this—this is a moment. Joseph counting sprinklers, the two of us here, together. It’s not the grand adventures or the orchestrated outings that stick, I realize. It’s these fragments of shared awe, where the world is suspended just long enough to notice.

“Come on,” I say finally. “Let’s find more.” And with a grin, Joseph nods, the mall stretching ahead of us like a map of hidden treasures, ceilings included.