And by that, I don’t mean the dolls with over-sized heads.
My parents meant well, I’m sure. Not letting us commute, having someone clean up after us, cook our meals, wash our clothes, make our beds. The list goes on.
I hate to say it but we’ve turned into brats. I’m not particularly proud of the fact. I wake up and instantly go downstairs without even thinking about the sheets I left crumpled and my pillows scattered on my bed. I’ve gotten used to eating breakfast and coming back to my room with my bed back in order. I don’t put away my plate after eating. I don’t think of what to cook for lunch or dinner. It’s already cooked when I want to eat.
Fast forward to today. Our maid has left a few months ago, my cousin who stays with us and helps out around the house went back to the province, my dad’s yayo isn’t back from his province, and the driver went home to celebrate their town’s fiesta. We have taken turns washing the dishes, putting away our clothes that are back from the laundry, and tidying up our rooms. I don’t like washing dishes. Especially after a lunch of lechon kawali and lots of Mang Tomas. I don’t like driving, I’ve realized. Or at least driving as a chore. I tried faking sleep just so I wouldn’t have to drive—but eventually, I had to “wake up” because my Kuya was really asleep. I snapped at everyone who talked to me because I hated being asked to do something.
What a brat. I really wish I didn’t turn out this way. It would be great if I knew how to get to work and not just by taking a cab. Or that I could go a week without my mom to cook food for me or have Laundry Express wash my clothes. I know my parents aren’t to blame, but maybe them meaning well, kind of backfired.