Serendipity
By Joanne Marie Combong–Pijuan

She-Who-Must-Be-Named

I'm back. After two weeks of vanishing without a trace (much to the delight of some people who probably thought I was chastised for misbehaving, hiding because I ruffled some egos, or that I have become a social pariah, as what a certain text message aimed to achieve, but failed to do so – sorry to disappoint you dearies, but the “biatch” is back!), I'm happy to report that my untimely disappearance was brought about by labor pains and the successful delivery of my beautiful daughter, Ripley.

Yes, believe it or not, after considering more than a hundred names for our baby, my husband and I finally agreed on one name (no small feat, considering that we rarely agree on anything). Everyone from both sides of the family as well as our friends can't get over the fact that we have named our unsuspecting daughter, Ripley. Their boggled reactions have only made the name more attractive and fascinating for us.

If I trace the etymology of that name, then I'd be discussing Sigourney Weaver's character, Ellen Ripley in Aliens I – IV or the modern Marco Polo and real-life Indiana Jones -- Robert Ripley, of “Ripley's Believe it or Not” fame, who traveled the world collecting the unbelievable, the inexplicable, and the one-of-a-kind, just to name a few references. However, etymology notwithstanding, my husband and I chose that name for the simple reason that we both like it. Ripley is such a distinct name; it's original, one-of-a-kind, eccentric, strong, slightly controversial, and highly quotable.

To tell you the truth, I honestly didn't want to write about my newborn daughter after my two-week hiatus. I didn't want to succumb to mushy adulation or suddenly and embarrassingly break into song. One thing I do not want to become is an obsessed mom for the entire world to see, but I guess the epidural anesthesia jabbed in my spine (after 20 hours of labor, thank you very much) only had a numbing effect from the waist down. My heart, unfortunately, is bellowing the lyrics of the extended version of “Sweet Child O' Mine”, so forgive me people for being such a mommy-cliché.

I know there are thousands of other topics to write about. There's the scandalous “Hello-Garci” tapes, the impending GMA impeachment trial, the London bombings, the famine in Niger, the over the top Tom and Katie engagement, or the amusing reactions of some people regarding my last article in this column which includes a certain dim-witted text message to one of my friends discounting my credibility (whoever did that obviously has a brain smaller than either her bulbous nose or her beady eyes – and we know who you are dahlings!) as well as their puny revenge tactics (all I can say is know your enemy well and never underestimate friendships and relationships!).

But in spite of the lure of all these exciting subjects and the chance to get back at some crass, guilty and pikon people (I call them the “Voldemorts” of my existence – intellectually-challenged version), nothing comes close to talking about something or someone close to one's heart. Besides, who wants to talk about the bad and the ugly especially when I've just had one of the most beautiful and gratifying experiences in life such as childbirth? I don't want to deal with anything negative at this point. The thought of being the next Brooke Shields and the possibility of popping Paxil pills gives me the willies.

In the meantime, allow me to sing my extended lullabies and let me succumb to my mushy adulation. Forgive my obsession and my sentimental declarations, but I will wear my heart on my sleeve. For nothing, and I mean nothing, can ever come close to being a mother to my baby daughter named Ripley.