Otherwise, the Eloquence of Sunday would have been Unexpressed

We drink at home, and moderately on a Saturday night, D and I. At our early thirties, hangovers are not only overrated, but are also a nuisance parents like us cannot afford.

By 4am on Sunday, I'm lacing up for a run. After a stretch, I stand outside for a minute, waiting for a GPS signal to lock in from satellites that orbit the earth. The watch flashes "go" like an answered prayer. Violet coaxes with the thickening blue of the sky and it's as if the streets are air-conditioned. 1.4km later, I'm at Roxas Boulevard and there's an organized race. I will have to accidentally crash this race. It has a "run to the beat" theme and the speakers blared wildly while my heart thumped fast against my rib cage. It's the closest I'll get to clubbing. For a moment, I was tempted to fist-pump to Swedish House Mafia.

I went 16k and stopped at the statue of a Raja Soliaman in front of the church. Not my best, and I even ran farther and faster just 2 weeks back, and farther and faster many years back. Between the years, I've gathered that true wisdom is to concede that you will not always be at your strongest.

The sweat from my scalp floods my face. My hands feel wet like like I just washed them. I'm being beaded beautifully in my own salt. That's enough to make me soar through this morning in high spirits.

Coming home from a Sunday morning run is always like finishing the Boston Marathon. Little I. is jumping up and down the bed, saying "Hi Daddy" in a screechy voice. We watch his shows or get started on reading while D. makes a prized breakfast. Today is zucchini omelet, sliced pears, and french roast cofffee with caramel cream.

Breakfast music pipes in and the little one specifically requests for happy music.We play the Spider Man theme performed by the Ramones, some Beatles, and nursery rhymes. I took mommy's hand for a waltz, and felt an even better kind of drunk when we danced.

"Can I dance too, Daddy?" The little one asks. We let the spoons, forks and knives rest as we close in a circle and dance. We eat some more, talk some more. The little one asks an ambitious "Can I play the piano mom and dad?"

It's only 7:30am. I fill the washing machine with the first batch of sorted, soiled clothes. In a while, I'd be looking at the clothes line arranged with whites, coloreds and darks. I'll be so thankful with how the sun shines so brilliantly.