Growing up with 6 mothers

Illustrations by Rene Elevera

Cinderella had two stepsisters, but I’ve had two stepmothers. That doesn’t sound like the formula for fairy-tale endings, but it sure makes for a complicated family tree.

Even before my parents’ marriage was annulled, I found myself running out of ways to call a mother. Mama, Mommy, Nanay—all these titles were taken.

My Auntie Mei and Lola Erlinda insisted on being called Nanay and Mommy, respectively, and I’ve never called them by another name.

Then there’s the assortment of relatives who also consider me their eldest, including my uncles’ girlfriends who would call me anak (child).

As if I wasn’t blessed enough with a surfeit of maternal care, I also have Auntie Rory, Auntie Pinky and Auntie Janette who had individual ways of mothering me when I was younger.

One took care of my medical appointments, another took charge of babysitting chores, and the last spoiled me with craft hobbies and geeky merchandise.

Nontraditional

My godmother, Ninang Peema, was initially reluctant to take up the title out of fear that her religion might be a problem. But my biological mother was stubborn and quite nontraditional, and insisted that a godmother need only be someone whom parents trusted enough with their child should anything happen to them.

I grew up considering Nanay Mei as my mother. She has remained single for the past 25 years and, after a couple of surgeries, was told that she could never bear a child.

But those who know us would understand that she already has a daughter, one for whom she’d open the door when I come home late at night, and whose subtlest rebellion she could detect.

Premonition

Runners-up for the title are Mommy Erlinda and Ninang Peema and together, the three of them are like my real-life Flora, Fauna and Merryweather, the fairy godmothers of Sleeping Beauty.

Mere differences in age and religion and the lack of blood ties do not deter them from feeling and loving like a mother.

Looking back, it seemed like my mother already had a premonition of our separation, so she left me in the care of surrogate mothers who could fill in her spot.

I’d like to think this eased her departure when I was only 3, and helped me cope with the pain of having a broken family as well.

My father struggled to find a lifelong partner and make a home. I did not object when he dated whom he wished, and reassured him countless times that he has his own life to live.

All the love

I met most of the girls he had dated, but never found the need to validate myself and my position in my dad’s life with their existence.

I felt so loved by my father and assorted mothers that I found it superfluous to seek more affection from strangers. I already had all the love I needed.

Most people think it’s harder to live with and love a stepmother. But I always thought it was harder for a stepmother to accept a man who refuses to give up his responsibility for an undeniable past, while seeking a future with her. Wouldn’t that make it more difficult to be a stepmom than a stepchild?

A few months before my father finally proposed marriage to his then longtime girlfriend, he asked me a seemingly random and unusual question: “You’ve never felt a mother’s love, have you?”

Puzzled, I looked at him and said, “Yes, I did. I have Nanay!”

Absurd

I found his question unbelievably absurd.  But at that time, I also understood it was his subtle way of telling

me I would be having a new mother soon. “Yes, there’s that,” he continued, “but you’ve never had a mom you could say really took care of you, and loved you.”

On normal days, I would have agreed quickly with my father to keep the conversation short, and then retreat to the comfort of silence. But that day was different: his words made my chest burst with defiance. I took no time to think of a response—I simply knew.

“But isn’t it a greater kind of love to treat and love someone as if they were already your own?” I told him. “That’s how Nanay is.”

My father’s response was mere silence. In a lot of ways, he and I are alike — his silence meant I had won this argument. And in his silence, I knew he agreed.