When he grows up...

Lord, what will my son be when he grow up?

Will he be a basketball player because he dribbles anything round or things that look round to him. Like one time he spoiled a squash my mother readied for supper. Or that ripe mango intended for dessert. Or that avocado quietly sitting on the counter.

Will he be mountain climber because he stealthily climbs over chairs, cabinets in a jiffy?

Will he be a driver – race cart driver, bus driver, because he looooves cars, cars and cars and driving, driving and driving. Maybe a mechanic then, because he gets fascinated with batteries, engines and tinkers with his car until they are reduced to bolts, screws and pieces. In mere minutes.


Will he be a show master because he is daring enough to do heart-stopping tricks and stunts worthy of the Moscow State Circus? And doing it all with a smile while Mama has terror written all over the face?

Or a street peddler because he can holler “isda” or “plastic” like Mang Juan the fish peddler or Mang Pedro the junk buyer? With that voice, he can also be an umpire. Or if I send him to music school, maybe he’d be a good singer.

Will he be a wrestler because he rolls over his stomach and simultaneously hits Mama on the chin or the head with his heel or his elbow? Or will he surpass Manny Pacquiao’s fame in the boxing arena because he delivers good uppercuts and punches, however unintentionally?

Whatever he may be in the future, Lord, let him be one good Christian,too.

Note: isda means fish