Curating a childhood

“Wow, that’s a massive library of board books.”

I was surprised too.

Until I realized my child’s collection
costs about the same as one iPhone Pro Max
and a top-tier gaming console combined.

Public service announcement for new parents:
children’s books are not cheap.
USD 10 to 20 each adds up quickly.

“Why so many?
Aren’t those stories already on YouTube?”

Some are.

But I still choose books.

Because books are not just content.
They are experiences.

They teach rhythm through Goodnight Moon.
Curiosity through The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
Pattern and memory through Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?
Tenderness through Guess How Much I Love You.

Each page trains attention.
Each story builds emotional vocabulary.
Each rereading strengthens imagination.

This is not passive entertainment.
This is quiet formation.

A book does not demand instant reaction.
It teaches patience.

It does not flood the senses.
It invites focus.

It does not rush.
It develops depth.

And don’t even get me started on customized board books.

The ones where your child becomes the hero.
Where his name lives inside the story.
Where he is not just reading, but belonging.

Books like The Little Boy Who Lost His Name
do something screens never will.

They tell a child, subtly:

You matter enough to be written into a story.

Suddenly, reading is no longer abstract.
It is personal.
It is intimate.
It is identity-building.

When he sees his name on the cover,
his confidence rises quietly.

When he recognizes himself in the pages,
his imagination expands naturally.

That is not indulgence.

That is investment.

In self-worth.
In curiosity.
In voice.

So yes, they cost more.
They take time to order.
They require thought.

Exactly why they matter.

You rarely see the change happening.

But the child who closes a book
is never quite the same
as the one who opened it.

That is why I invest in shelves, not screens.

Because taste is formed early.
And so is character.

ROI

“Wow, that’s a massive Duplo collection.

Why would you spend over USD 3,000 on LEGO?”

Fair question.

For some, they are just colorful blocks.

Overpriced plastic scattered on the floor.

To us, they are tools for imagination.

Every brick my child stacks teaches something.

Focus.

Patience.

Creativity.

How to dream.

How to fail.

How to rebuild when things fall apart.

I have seen my son build towers

taller than his little arms can reach.

Laugh when they crash.

Then rebuild.

Faster.

Better.

Stronger.

That is not just play.

That is practice.

For life.

For resilience.

For creation.

Someday, those same hands

will build something far greater.

Not out of plastic,

but out of passion and purpose.

That is the real ROI.

Return on Imagination.

Paycheck I didn't expect

I was at a toy store with my child,
looking for Tomicas to add to our growing garage.

A young man, probably in his late twenties, approached me.

“Excuse me, Sir… did you happen to teach college back in the 2010s?”

I smiled. “Yes, I did.”

His face lit up.

“Sir! Long time no see!”

He told me he now works at a large company.
Stable career. Doing well.
Building a good life.

Then he said something that stopped me.

“You were one of the few teachers who made me believe I could actually make it.”

For a second, the toy shelves disappeared.

Wow.

So something I said back then,
in between attendance sheets, deadlines, and lectures,
took root.

Sometimes life gives you moments like that.

Reminders that the work you once thought was ordinary
was quietly shaping someone else’s trajectory.

The salary may not have built wealth.
But the influence built something far more enduring.

You do not always see the fruit of your effort right away.

Sometimes it grows out of sight.
Sometimes it walks up to you years later
and says thank you.

And sometimes, it finds you
while you are buying Tomicas for yourself.

I mean… for your child.

Flight upgrade

My wife and I have always been travel buddies.

We started flying around the country in 2010,

and outside it in 2011.

Asia. Australia. Europe.

The United Kingdom. The United States.

Travel became muscle memory.

We had momentum.

Ten-year multiple-entry visas stamped confidently on our passports.

Strong legs for long walks that began at sunrise

and ended with sore feet and quiet satisfaction.

A wardrobe of trench coats and windbreakers,

each tied to a season, a city, a version of ourselves.

Airports felt like extensions of home.

Flights were something to look forward to, not manage.

Then the pandemic arrived.

Borders closed.

Planes disappeared.

What we had were walking-tour videos of New York, Paris, Tokyo.

Muted volumes. Paused screens.

Watching other people move while we stayed still.

Fast forward to today.

We are ready to fly again.

Outside the country.

With our child.

For the first time.

And it feels different.

From two suitcases to three.

From hands-free to holding a cabin-size stroller.

From signature bags to a full childcare carry-on.

From excitement about the flight

to concern about how it will go for him.

I still feel the familiar thrill

when I see the aircraft at the gate.

But it is quieter now,

layered with something heavier.

I wonder about cabin pressure on small ears.

About turbulence.

About sleep.

About comfort.

I realize travel is no longer about

how far we can go

or how much we can see.

It is about how safe he feels.

How calm we remain.

How we carry not just luggage,

but responsibility.

This first flight is not about destinations,

visas, or future posts.

It is about watching a child

see clouds for the first time.

About holding a small hand during takeoff.

About silently hoping

the world we once explored so freely

will be kind to him.

We used to travel to feel alive.

Now, we travel

to introduce life to the world.

And maybe

that is the real upgrade.

5 feet

We went to the highlands for a breather. 

Cool air.
Quiet mornings.
A cabin with a staircase connecting it to the world below.

Then an accident.

I took one step down.

My foot slid.

My body tipped backward.

Then impact.

My back hit the first step.

Then the next.

And the next.

Each stair catching my spine like a drumbeat.

Thud. Crack. Thud.

Five feet does not sound high

until you fall it.

I landed flat.

Then I stood up.

Because men stand up.

There was a scrape.

A little blood. But no pain.

Adrenaline is merciful and deceptive.

“It’s fine,” I said.

By 11pm, the lie expired.

The pain arrived without knocking.

It did not ache, it pierced.

Every attempt to turn felt like a blade

being twisted inside my lower back.

We were far from everything.

No pharmacy.

No quick relief.

Just darkness and breathing through it.

“Anak, huwag mo i-baby ang sakit.”

They say mothers know best,
so I listened.
And endured.

The next day,
I carried on like normal.

Lifted my 12-kilo son.
Carried 20-kilo luggage.
Changed the water jug.

The usuals.

Small proofs of strength.
Quiet acts of denial.

Three nights passed.

Pain stayed.

Like something inside me had shifted,

and never quite returned.

I saw a specialist.

I needed to get scanned.

Then the verdict.

A thin crack in my spine.

Plus a slipped disc.

The first, temporary.

The second, possibly permanent.

Enough to redraw months of your life.

“Strict bed rest. One month.
Then come back for follow-up.”

No lifting.

No sudden movement.

No pretending.

Just flat on your back

replaying the fall in your head.

Five feet.

That’s all it took.

Pain has a way of humbling you.

It strips away the illusion that you are unbreakable.

It reminds you that strength is not about rising quickly.

Sometimes strength is accepting stillness.

Sometimes strength is healing before proving anything.

That day did not give me cake memories.

It gave me perspective.

Your body keeps score.

And gravity does not negotiate.

Buy her flowers

I have been giving my wife a bouquet
almost every year for nearly two decades.

Consistently.
Every Valentine’s Day.

People often ask me why.

Women will say,
“No, we don’t even want flowers.”
“Let's be practical”

Maybe.

But sometimes what they really mean is,
“You don’t have to.”

That is different from,
“I don’t want to be chosen.”

Some people argue that
I have fallen for the marketing of capitalists.
Maybe.

But if marketing reminds me to pause
and honor my wife deliberately,
I am fine with that.

Because this is not about roses.

It is about ritual.
It is about consistency.
It is about never letting the woman who stands beside me
wonder if she still matters.

I would rather let my wife be the envy of others
than let her feel envy toward anyone else.

Because here is what people rarely talk about.

Imagine this.

It is Valentine’s Day at work.

Someone walks in holding a bouquet.
Trying not to hide her smile.

Her coworkers notice.

“That bouquet is so nice.”
“Your husband is so sweet.”
“You’re very lucky.”

How do you think she feels?

Seen.
Chosen.
Proud.

Now imagine the others.

The ones who did not receive anything.
The ones who say, “It’s okay.”
The ones who pretend it does not matter.

It always matters.

Not because of the flowers.

Because of what they represent.

Effort.
Thought.
Consistency.
Public affection.

A quiet announcement that says:

After all these years,
I still choose you.

My wife has never demanded flowers.

Which is exactly why she deserves them.

Love should not be given
only when it is requested.
It should be given
because it is deserved.

Some people say,
“It’s just once a year.”

Exactly.

If you cannot show up intentionally
once a year,
how are you showing up the rest of the time?

For me, flowers are not an obligation.

They are a promise.

A reminder.
A choice renewed quietly.

Every year, I am telling my wife:

I still notice you.
I still pursue you.
I still take pride in loving you.

And one day,
when we are older,
when life is slower,
when the house is quieter,

I hope she looks back and thinks:

He never made me doubt.

That is why I buy her flowers.

Not for tradition.
Not for show.

But because love,
when practiced consistently,
becomes security.