Bruh

There’s a meme shirt showing the title change from mama, to mommy, to mom, to bruh. I think I’ve reached bruh. Or maybe I’m something else entirely.

One Sunday afternoon, finding myself with a bit of extra time (because all the laundry was done and the cleaning people are coming in a few days), I asked my teenage daughter if she’d like to hang out. She looks at me like I have two heads. This girl used to sit outside the bathroom door to wait while I was on the toilet. She used to cling to my leg before I left for work each morning, begging me to stay. This girl used to get so upset every time I looked at my phone, complaining that I was looking at it too much instead of looking at her. This girl now thinks I’m weird for wanting to spend time with her.

I go over to my thirteen year old son’s room. He’s on his computer, as usual. I asked him if he was working on anything at that moment, and he said no. I asked if he’d like to do anything together. Flatly, he replied, no. It was that simple. It seemed not too long ago that this baby boy sought comfort by sticking his finger in my navel as he dozed off to sleep. Older Ilonggo folk call that childlike physical dependency, panguyutong. It was funny, but sweet.

By the look of things, I’m not even a bruh. Bruhs get to hang out together, I think.

I’m a premature empty-nester in a perfectly full nest.