Kids

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Just Do It

I walked into the apartment, looking somewhat relieved, yet nervous about Rudy’s reaction. “I quit my job, today,” I told him. He looked at me, not sure what to think. He looked at my tired expression and then at my swollen belly. “Why?” he asked. I knew I had made the right decision for me, for our future yet, I knew it wasn’t fair to Rudy that I hadn’t consulted him about leaving a job that brought in money to help pay the bills. I wrapped my hands under my pregnant belly, six months of baby inside me. “Well, I drive by the university everyday on my way to work and everyday I tell myself that someday I will return to school to finish what I had started long ago.” Rudy approached me, put his hands on my shoulders, and said that it was okay. “We will manage. We will figure it out.”

My first semester as a transfer student was somewhat difficult. Not only did I have to renew my mindset to student but I was preoccupied with the fact that I would soon become a mother for the first time. I was uncomfortable physically, and mentally I felt overwhelmed. Tired, sure, but more than that I was determined to walk a steady line. I completed the semester with all my work turned in, finals finished. The following morning, my baby daughter was born.

me-newborn lizSix weeks. That was the amount of time that Elizabeth and I had bonded, with no distractions. Well, as it always happens, time runs out. In mid-February, semester number two began. So then did a whole new challenge. How were we going to do it all? Rudy was working the graveyard shift (as in 11pm to 7am), so he was constantly trying to adapt to some kind of sleep pattern. A new baby added a new dimension: Will we ever sleep? While he worked through the night, I was at home caring for Elizabeth, waking up every few hours to feed and change her. Then, just before the sun rose, I began gathering my school things while getting dressed. Plus, I needed to do another breastfeeding session, swaddle Liz in fresh linen (cotton diapers, delivered to the house) and soothe her, gently rocking her while we waited for Rudy to return home. Then, he’d take over while I went to morning classes.

He looked exhausted as he walked through the front door, but he reached for Liz, held her close, and began babbling quietly as I rushed out the door.

rud:newborn lizUpon my return, several hours later, I would quietly enter the apartment only to find Rudy lounging on the couch. His feet splayed out in front of him, his head tilted forward, chin against her head, and his arms tightly, yet gently, wrapped around our wee child. I didn’t want to interrupt Rudy’s much needed nap but I knew it was best to get him into the bedroom, close the door, and let him sleep for as many hours as he could manage. Not easy, though, when the bedroom window faced the kindergarten playground of the neighboring elementary school. I then spent the day caring for Miss Lizzy, doing the best I knew how. When she would fall asleep, I would gather my homework and study. As late evening approached, after Rudy had eaten something, anything, he would kiss us goodbye,  and then the cycle would begin again.

liz&meGRADUATEAfter two and a half years of adjusting to our “situation“, the I just wish I could sleep! situation, Rudy tiredly took pictures of me with a cap and gown on, Elizabeth in my arms, smiling at the camera.

I knew I still had an additional year of schooling to complete, in a credential program somewhere, anywhere, before I could teach solo in a classroom. Unfortunately though, I needed to return to the work force, full-time. Sleep deprived or not, I was confident that  eventually I would return to school. “I will,” I told myself.

And I did. I eventually enrolled in a credential program, taking evening classes so I could continue to work during the day. And by this time, our second child, Roberto, was three years old, the same age Liz was when I earned my Bachelors Degree. The day I left for my first day at work, as a certified school teacher, was the same day Roberto began kindergarten.

Here it is, twenty years later and I reflect on those days and wonder how I did it. How we did it, Rudy and I. Well, I’ve determined that we just did because, honestly, we had to.  We tried (very hard) not to reflect on the downside, but rather on how to make the most of our situation, or probably more accurately, we just plowed through it, hoping for the best. Those obstacles seriously molded the way we continue to approach life. With perseverance. Whether we sleep or not.

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Ah, Parenting

“Mom, will you come with me when I move into the dorms, when I leave for college?” Brad asked me this question years ago as he was observing parents carrying luggage and pillows up the stairs, into the massive buildings, in anticipation of ‘letting go’, helping their children start a new chapter in their young lives. We were inside the campus bookstore at the University of Arkansas, browsing, when Brad’s thoughts meandered to his own future.

I remember when I first became a mother. I was young! Yet, I was ready. Elizabeth was placed on my chest eight days before our 2nd wedding anniversary. Roberto popped in three years later. And finally, Bradford, a whopping 8 years later. Definitely planned, planned, and planned! I embraced motherhood. I was meant to guide (yes guide, not control!) these children of mine through life, to help them learn new things. They were  continually raised with focused guidance, making sure peace, love, and happiness were being absorbed daily.

Elizabeth began at a very young age (year 3, to be exact) to ask very personal questions.  You see, when a child is that young, she has no idea that her questions might be hard for mom and/or dad to answer. That was the beginning of my understanding of what a very important job I had been gifted to undertake. Not only was I supposed to help the kids develop morals and values, and simply love them, I needed to be there (individually, and as a group) emotionally.

I honestly feel Elizabeth opened me up, way back when she innocently, yet inquisitively, asked “Where do babies come from?” She taught me, in that moment, what kind of parent I was going to be. Neither of us realized how great the relationship between my three youngsters and myself would develop over the years. I simply listen, openly. In the end my kids like having me around, like my company.

So, when Brad asked me if I’d be with him, I knew he asked because he likes me. “Of course,” I stated. “Good,” he returned. “Because I want you to help me.”

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Roberto William – Happy B-Day

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A moment in time occurred twenty years ago. A moment never forgotten by Rudy. A memory instilled within his soul of days long ago when he used to drop Roberto off at kindergarten.

Their morning started off, as usual, with Rudy helping Roberto dress, and feeding him a hearty breakfast. Something like cold cereal or a PopTart.™

After sitting in the car, cruising along for a mile or so, listening to music and chatting about living the life of a five year old, Rudy would pull the red two-door Honda hatchback up to the curb, next to the chain link fence, and state Okay, Buddy, which was Roberto’s cue to climb out of the car and walk through the kindergarten gate about ten yards away.

Dad don’t leave yet, Roberto cheerfully commanded.

Rudy always waited until Roberto made his way onto the kinder playground then he’d drive off, heading to work for the day. Yet, on that particular day, for the very first time, Roberto made a request, telling Rudy to stay where he was, in the motor-running car. Suddenly, there was Roberto, backpack dropped to the ground in front of his feet, his teeny-tiny fingers entwined through the links of the fence.

I love you, and drive careful! Roberto yelled to him.

From that day on, this endearing ritual found a place in their private world.

And I love you, Bud, Rudy responded, giving Roberto a thumbs-up. Then Roberto would grab his school bag and run off to play.

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Parenting 101

REPOST from Sept. 15, 2012: (stands the test of time…)

brad, age 13

There’s this fine line between disciplinarian and friend, when it comes to being a parent. Kids need rules, yet, they also need someone they trust. Someone to talk to. Someone like me.

I’ve never grounded my kids. Rather, I find quiet moments to talk about a situation, without making a big deal. Which in turn develops a bond between us. A solidarity.

One day, when Brad was at a friend’s house, I took the opportunity to clean his way too messy room. As the pile of clothing, and other junk, began to diminish from the top of his dresser, having settled back into the drawers, I spotted the Kindle Fire. I had forgotten about the electronic reader, as I had given it to Brad to use for school; so, for me, it was out-of-sight-out-of-mind. During the summer, he said he wanted to spent some time getting acquainted with the gadget, to just play with it, learn how to use it.

Sounded good to me.

I picked the Kindle up, which was tucked into its black leather jacket that I had bought, to protect it. I stretched the elastic band off the cover, flipped it open, turned it on, and browsed through items Brad had downloaded. Just checking in, one might say. Games, Facebook, and a few magazines.

I should have guessed, but I hadn’t. Nor was I surprised. Or even mad, that one of the magazines included lots of photos of girls; young women, actually, in teeny-tiny swimsuits. HOT women, emphasizing breasts and rear-ends.

I laughed. To myself.

Later, when Brad was lounging on his bed, I walked in, asking how his day was. It was fun, he told me. And he thanked me for cleaning his room.

“Oh, and by the way, I was looking at the Kindle,” I began.
Brad gave me a sideways glance, narrowed his eyes, and smirked a bit.
“I saw the magazine you downloaded. The girls,” I continued.
He just looked at me. Waited for me to do some more talking.
“I see you have good taste,” I joked.
He smiled, and looked down.
“And, well, anyway, I have no problem with you looking at those pictures, but a word of advice.”
He waited, patiently.
“You need to delete them. The Kindle is for class books, for reading, and I don’t think your teachers would like those photos on campus.” I finished.
“OK,” Brad answered.

The night before his first day of school, I asked him if he had everything he needed. If he was all packed up.
“Yep,” he responded. “And, yes, the magazine has been deleted.”

I am sure he will not be surprised when another respect for women conversation drops into ours lives somewhere down the road.

I am building a lifetime with him. A trusting relationship, so that he knows that no matter what, he can always count on me.

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Lemons and Liz

IMG_8262IMG_8164Liz is my pal. My friend. My daughter. And when she talks, I listen. When she gives me advice, I’m focused. Tuned in. To everything she has to say. Including healthy advice. Things she’s learned about eating properly, ideas that make my day brighter, lighter, uplifting, and overall body-better feeling.

So, when she brought up the importance of drinking lemon water I couldn’t wait to get home and slice up some of those sunshine-yellow nuggets.

I know. I know. Nothing new. Heard it before. Just a reboot. An old idea renewed. But a valuable idea nonetheless. And, honestly, coming from Liz, it’s an old idea that she believes needs new attention. And, well, I consider her a valuable healthnut guru. Why? You might ask. She’s healthy, love-wealthy, and definitely wise, I’d answer.

Therefore, I’ve been drinking it up. Water saturated with lemons. So good. So refreshing. So easy. So worthy. So me. So Liz.

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yawn, true story about 8 year old me

The young girl sat in the back of the classroom. Not by choice but rather by alphabetical order. Last name order. And that particular year, she ended up sitting in the fourth row, last seat.

She actually didn’t care. Didn’t even really notice. It was just the way the teacher chose to sit all the students. And, anyway, the girl made no issues with having to sit in the back. Like some of the other kids did.

yawn2One morning, after she had arrived to class and put her things away, the youngster sat quietly, in her seat, awaiting instructions. She felt tired. Assumed she probably didn’t sleep well the night before. It seemed that there was more noise around the house than usual. Just people, her family, talking into the night. About everything. And their muffled voices kept waking her. As the late hour progressed.

The girl yawned. As she had before. Like many people do. In the classroom. While waiting for the teacher to call them all to attention.

The boy sitting in front of her turned around, and looked at her. His mouth was open as if he were going to ask her a question. But then he closed it back up. And turned his whole body back around facing the front. Face toward the chalkboard.

Not a minute later, he turned again, and asked the girl, “Why are you always crying?” She said not a word, and just looked at him, confused. He continued. “Your eyes are always watering. Like you’ve been crying.” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and saw that, yes she did have tears. “Oh. I’m not crying, I just yawned. I guess it made my eyes water.” The boy just looked at her. Didn’t know how to respond, so he simply turned back. And faced the front of the classroom. Again. And she yawned. Again. Feeling the tears pool in her eyes. And wondered who else thought she was always crying.

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i like your face

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when brad was a wee little lad,
about six years old,
he looked at me,
seriously,
and said
“i wish I could marry you when i grow up.”
“why?” i wondered.
“because,” he answered.
i looked at him
and smiled.
then,
he simply said,
“i like your face.”

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Being Human

roberto age 4:5

When Roberto was born, his head was perfectly shaped. Perfectly proportioned. With perfectly placed facial features. He was, in my opinion, a natural born attention-getter.

When he was a very young boy, Roberto was guaranteed to hear how beautiful his big blue eyes were. How cute he was. Yet, I made sure to counter-comment, after he would thank them for the compliment, with an observation of my own.

“…and he is such a nice, kind person. Smart too!”

You see, as far as I was concerned, and what I’ve wanted Roberto to embrace was that more than his good looks, concern for humanity should be a top priority, along with respect for others.

No longer a very young boy, Roberto is now a young adult, and his handsome features have not wavered, and neither has his appreciation of human life, and accepting people for who they are. As has always been important to me, Roberto also believes everyone should live their own life, in the way they chose, as long as they are not harming themselves, or more importantly, not hurting anyone else.

Roberto is what many call the life of the party. The person you can count on to bring happiness to any situation. A true, loyal friend. Someone dedicated to improving his own life, while enhancing the lives of others. He’s respectful, complete with morals and values. A well-rounded human being. Someone who will bend down and look a child in the eyes when talking to him or her. He will listen, with enthusiasm, to an elderly person, gaining valuable insight from the life of someone who has a story to tell, memories of long ago. Roberto enjoys the company of family, as much as he does his connection with friends.

As his mom, I am impressed and proud of the open-minded person he is. So, when he told me, with no fear of rejection, that he is gay, I warmly welcomed him into my embrace, because of the young man I know him to be, and because of the love he shares willingly, without conditions.

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i am a writer

me blogging

As far back as I can remember writing had never been my thing, the thing one thinks of as a passion, a lifeline, something one needs to do to feel whole. I have always loved the written word, yet I never considered myself as a writer.

I even proved as much when, during a teacher prep course in college, I wrote a very mundane story about me, a bathroom, nine brothers, a sister and a waiting line. I had no clue how to make what could have been a hilarious tale into an interesting read.

Years had passed since that book was turned in, and the only writing I had done since was scribbling my thoughts into a personal journal.

Until one day, several years later, when Rudy moved to Arkansas, to take a job out of necessity. My writing journey unexpectedly began with stories about us, living separate lives. My thoughts, tingling to my fingertips, spilt onto the page, revealing true, heartfelt bona fide affairs.

It was then that I knew I could write, pulling from emotions that are always on the edge of my mind, waiting for their turn.

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An Ode To Writers

The following conversation occurred several years ago. It still holds true today. Writing isn’t a quick job, or hobby, but rather it takes time to ‘Get to the Point’ as multiple thoughts are jotted down. Which are then arranged and rearranged appropriately, followed by tons of editing. And editing is what takes the most time before hitting the PUBLISH button. I applaud those who have written and published their work, garnering a reader’s want for more. Bravo.  

“Are you done yet, Mom? You said we would watch a movie together.”

My son was sitting, waiting patiently on the couch.

“One minute. I just need to edit this. Make sure it makes sense. Includes all the important details,” I respond, not looking his way.

“It really has surprised me how much time it takes to write one piece,” I add, to myself.

I finish. Half an hour later.

“Movie?” she questions.

“Yeah. But hold on. I am working on something.” His eyes are focused on the laptop’s screen.

“Okay. Let me know when you are ready.” I walk back to the desktop computer. Open my post. Re-read it for any errors. Make sure it’s coherent.

I find a flaw. Or two.
A misspelled word.
A sentence that needs a pronoun.

“Mom? I’m ready,” my son says.

“One minute. I just need to edit this.”