Mano po. Ninong, mano po. Ninang

Christmas is in the air. It has been that way since September, and some would say even earlier.

- RICARDO T. PAMINTUAN

Some of my neighbors don't bother to remove their twinkling parols and lights hanging from real trees. They're in season now again, after all.

Jose Mari Chan has been battling Mariah Carey for dominance of mall music, while godparents are gearing up for the attack of the godchildren. As a Gen Xer with a modest roster of inaanak, majority of them nephews or nieces, I feel I'm slightly qualified to spill the tea on this delightful (and occasionally exasperating) cultural phenomenon.

It starts with the ritual. It's a religious rite, first and foremost.

So, you've just been asked to be a ninong or ninang. Congratulations! Whether at a baptism or a wedding, you've officially been anointed as a VIP in someone's life—part mentor, part sponsor, and (let's not sugarcoat it) part ATM.

As someone who's been in your shoes, a penny-pinching one at that, let me tell you: This is no small feat. Between the spiritual duties and the constant tug-of-war with your wallet, it's a gig that tests your patience, generosity, and creativity.

It begins with a simple, seemingly innocuous request: "Can you be my child's godparent?" Images of The Godfather immediately come to mind—the romanticized mafia relationship that creates social and business links for life.

Cast showbiz aside and you might think this is about guiding a young soul in his spiritual journey. And it is, at least on paper and during the pre-ceremony orientation. But in the Philippines, baptisms may sometimes be less about divine grace and more about assembling a financial Avengers team for your child.

If you've attended a baptism recently, you'll know that some sneaky parents rarely stop at one or two godparents, even if the birth certificate often only provides spaces for two. Why settle for a pair when you can have a full house?