Kids

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Parenting 101

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 the black leather jacket 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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Tota and the Cookies

 cookiesTota, age 6, was Rudy’s childhood friend. He was part of the crowd. One of the boys. Someone who wanted to do the right thing, mostly. But because of peer pressure from his buddies, sometimes he did the wrong thing.

The women in town made it a point to purchase snacks to share with their friends whenever they came to visit. A nice cup of tea, and some scrumptious cookies always filled the bill. Those cookies weren’t to be touched by anyone except for the woman who bought them. And only when she invited someone over, or when other women invited themselves to stop by for some good conversation. Or maybe just a bit of gossip.

One day, the boys were outside playing their crazy made-up games, running around, having a great time. Having fun until one of them, and then all of them, began to feel the pangs of hunger. Or maybe not hunger, but a desire for something sweet. Something good. And before you know it, all the boys are staring at Tota. They all knew what lay hidden behind his kitchen cupboard doors, sealed, waiting to satisfy. Cookies. Layers of small, buttery cookies.

“Come on, Tota,” one boy started, then another and another.

“I can’t,” he began, his eyes wide, almost fearful. “My mom will burn my fingers if I even think about stealing a few.”

“Nah, no way. She wouldn’t do that. Come on,” the boys continued their chant.

The boys snuck in, following Tota into his house. He quietly grabbed the tin of cookies, peeled the clear wrap away, lifted the lid and allowed his pals to choose a cookie here and a cookie there, until half were gone.

“She’ll never guess,” someone said, as they tiptoed out of front door, each heading to his own home, each living in a house on the same street.

Later, as everyone gathered at a predetermined time, at a predetermined place to continue their shenanigans, someone wondered where Tota was. They looked toward his house, which was directly across the street from where they stood. Suddenly, there he was, walking with his head down, walking toward the boys he spends most his time with, the boys he can depend on.

“I told you she’d burn my fingers if I took some cookies,” he stated, holding up two fingers, red from a flame being held to them. No one said a word. No one needed to. Their wide-eyed scared looked said it all.

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the boy and the donkey

IMG_1725A donkey wandered around the backyard, minding its own business, when, suddenly, a young boy plopped a colorful wool blanket onto the unsuspecting animal’s back. That little kid jumped aboard, straddling the animal, just like he’d seen the older boys do. A friend grabbed the donkey’s rein and nudged the calm creature around the fenced in yard. Six or seven boys took turns climbing up onto the donkey’s swayed back and enjoy the slow pace of the animal.

Now, these boys were young, in first grade most likely. Boys being boys. Finding something to do to pass the time. The first boy to ride the donkey was in charge of this small-time circus, well, because, it was his grandma who gave them permission to entertain the donkey. Now, this was exciting considering these young lads had never before been allowed to enjoy such a treat. The boys laughed and laughed. They were enjoying themselves when out of nowhere – it seemed – a voice asked, “Can I ride?” It was another friend, the one who always seemed to get himself in some kind of trouble.

“Before you can ride the donkey you need to pull the donkey around the yard first,” the ring master told his friend. The newly arrived boy grabbed the rein, but none of the other kids climbed onto the donkey’s back, which was actually kind of nice because it made it easier for the trouble-maker to guide the animal around. The lone boy circled the yard but then decided to be a bit daring, so he oh-so-slowly maneuvered the donkey into the space below the house. Enough space to get through, but confined enough that he needed to stoop to walk from one end to the other. Except, well, the problem was, the boy didn’t stoop enough, or properly, or something, because all that the other boys could hear was “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” every time the boy smacked his forehead against the wooden pillars protruding down from below the house. The boy exited the other side holding his hand flat against his flaming red forehead. “That hurt,” is all he said. The other boys laughed, not surprised by the trouble-maker’s shenanigans, while the ring-leader jumped onto the donkey for another ride.

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rudy and the rocks

Medion DIGITAL CAMERAIn first or second grade Rudy found himself in a pickle. He did something wrong, something the teacher didn’t approve of. She handed him a sealed note addressed ‘To the Parents of…’ and told him to take it home, that he needed to have one or both his parents read and sign it. And, well, in his town, a sealed letter from the teacher always meant You are in trouble mister! news.

Rudy panicked, was scared of the spanking that was sure to happen once his mom read what he had done. He knew that his dad was at work so it would be his mom that would handle the situation. Her way.

A classmate, a wee boy about the same small height as Rudy, noticed the fear building up in his eyes, so he recommended that Rudy defuse the situation with just three rocks.

“Three rocks?” Rudy questioned.

“Only three,” the friend responded. “And you must find those three rocks right here, on the school grounds, right now. You cannot pick them up on your way home.”

Rudy ran off to collect the average sized rocks, not much bigger than large pebbles.

“Got ’em,” he claimed, holding out his hand, displaying the carefully-selected-similar-looking gray rocks.

“Good. Now what you do is… when you are walking home toss one rock behind you, and don’t look back. Never look back,” his peer stated.

“So, I just throw the rocks over my shoulder?”

“Yes, but you must throw them one at a time, not all at once. And, you must throw them with an equal distance between each toss.”

“Okay,” Rudy felt slightly confused, and must have shown it on his face.

“Once you leave this spot and are a short distance away throw the first rock behind you, wait until you have walked a little then throw the second rock, and then the third rock gets tossed at an equal distance compared to the first two. Understand?”

Rudy shook his head up and down. “And you are sure I will not get a spanking when I get home?”

“Yep,” the boy confidently stated.

Rudy made it home, successfully tossing the rocks at an equal distance, and never once did he look behind him to see where they landed. He nervously handed his mom the letter, whereby she simply smiled, and let him pass without a word.

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a boy and the lies he tells

Most times kids lie to avoid trouble. Not him. He lies to avoid the truth.

During a classroom math time discussion his teacher asked the students a graphing question. “Who has been to Disneyland?” she wondered, big fat marker in hand, ready to chart their answers.

Youthful hands shot up into the air, wiggling with excitement.

Not his. His hands were jammed firmly under his little boy thighs.

“Never?” Ms. She’s Really Nice inquired.

He shook his head back and forth. ” But, I have been to Las Vegas,” he shared.

Later, in the late afternoon, while sitting in a circle with the other boys and girls in karate class, he made an announcement.

“I did not get any presents for Christmas.”

That got their attention.

“I did not give any presents to anyone either. Anyway, I don’t even celebrate Christmas,” he said.

No. Big. Deal.

When he was in the car with his mom, driving home from an hour of kicks and jabs, he rehashed his day.

“Why would you tell the teacher you’ve never been to Disneyland? And Vegas? Why did you say you went to Las Vegas?”

She continued questioning him before he could get a word-in-edgewise.

“You said you didn’t get presents, didn’t give them, and don’t even celebrate Christmas? Why would you make up all those things?” she wondered.

“I just don’t want people to know everything about me,” he answered.

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what’s in a name?

“I’m pregnant.” I said, in a woo–hoo! kind of way. Rudy smiled that ‘I’m feeling pretty good right now’ smile of his as he wrapped me in his arms, and laughed that gentle laugh of his. That laugh that said so much. “¡Gracias Dios Mio!” he blurted, raising his arms to the heavens.

As the initial excitement began to calm, we realized a very important decision was now in order. “What will we name the baby?” we both questioned in unison.

Fortunately, for the two of us, we knew our children would be given family names. One name from my family, one from Rudy’s. A first name. A middle name. It narrowed down our options, therefore making the process a bit easier.

“If the baby is a boy, how about your name? He could be a junior.” I offered. “No. That’s okay. I’m not sure I like my name enough to pass on.” Rudy stated matter-of-factly.

We pondered the names in our families; the choices: maternal and paternal grandfathers, brothers, and uncles were said aloud. We combined them; one as the first name, another as the middle name, and then switched the order. Nothing felt 100% just right. We moved on to girl names. A just–as–consuming test – which took months, mind you!

“I really want to name her after my mom, using her middle name, Elizabeth.” I said, as I felt my heart soften, thinking about naming my daughter after my sweet, kind-hearted mom. “I like that,” Rudy said. “I was thinking of Victoria, after my grandma. We would visit her a lot when I was a kid. When it was time to leave I would always run out to the tree in the front yard of her house and hug its trunk so hard that my parents had to struggle to pry me away. You see, I didn’t want to leave Grandma Victoria. She made me happy.” I became teary-eyed thinking of little Rudy crying, screaming. This was going to be harder than we thought, we suddenly realized. Rudy also liked his ambitious, intelligent sister Cecilia’s name. I considered my middle name Anne, too. Anne with an e.

This serious do-not-want-to-pick-a-name-that-will-harm-the-future-of-our-child-by-picking-the-wrong-name job produced two candidates. Elizabeth Cecilia and Victoria Anne.

After I had delivered our child, Rudy by my side, and him being overwhelmed by, and amazed with the process of birth, he kissed my puffy – just had a child – face. He had a tear in his eye and quietly whispered “That was amazing! I want to name her Elizabeth Cecilia, after your mom and my sister.” I smiled, lay my head back, and sighed with relief.

Three years later Rudy was in Honduras, with Elizabeth and my niece, a full week before I was to arrive. His sister was getting married. Little did he know that I had a surprise for him. “I’m pregnant!” I cried as I fell into his arms when he greeted me at the arrival gate. Rudy hugged me, Elizabeth hugged me. My niece hugged me. “¡Gracias Dios Mio!” he shouted, as he raised his arms to the heavens.

Again, family names filled our daily thoughts. The name Victoria Anne sat quietly in our minds, waiting for her turn, if we were to have another girl.

“I really admire my dad.” I simply stated. “Yet, in my family all the first boys were named John so I think it’s best to leave it that way.” Rudy, too, admired my dad, and also agreed with my thoughts on why we shouldn’t name a son after him. “Well, my brother Bill meant a lot to me. Before he died in a car accident when he was 19, he always made time for me. Maybe we can use his name, William?” I questioned. Rudy nodded, knowing how much Bill meant to me, having heard my many stories. “I like the name Roberto, after my little brother, and my blue-eyed uncle.” he said, seemingly deep in thought about those he cares for. The name Roberto seemed so foreign to me, like those Spanish intonations just didn’t know how to roll on my OC tongue. I kept those thoughts to myself.

Months later, as I struggled to get off the couch, to answer the phone, my water broke. “My water broke!” I yelled, hoping Rudy was near enough to hear me.

After securing Elizabeth with a downstairs neighbor, Rudy drove me to the hospital to deliver our child. But wait! Seriously, did we forget something?! While Rudy returned home to retrieve the video camera, I began to hyperventilate. Unusual for me, which made the experience worse. I was given, what I seem to remember as a paper lunch bag, but was probably actually an oxygen mask, to help sooth me. Rudy returned as quickly as possible, within minutes, it seemed, of the birth. “Its a boy.” the doctor stated. Rudy hugged me. “So, what is our son’s name?” I asked him. Rudy smiled, that smile that makes him even better looking smile of his. “Roberto William.” Perfectly named. “I love it.” I said with exhaustion. I was willing to work the name into my life, to make it a part of who we had become – an interracial family.

Eight years later, I handed Rudy the home-pregnancy-test-kit wand. He looked at the + sign. He looked at me, wide-eyed. “¡Gracias Dios Mio!” he gleefully cheered, once again sending his arms up toward the heavens.

Naming our last, and final, child now included the involvement of Elizabeth and Roberto. When I went in for a check up and the nurse asked if we’d like to know the sex of the child, before we could even consider our options, the kids – didn’t scream, but were pretty darn close to scaring the other patients – said, “Yes! Please Mom and Dad?” Rudy and I looked at each other, smiled and gave the OK nod and a thumbs up. “It’s a boy!” the nurse happily told Elizabeth and Roberto.

“Bradford.” I said. “Let’s name him Bradford in honor of our marriage. Named after the place where we were married. Let’s have his first name be a surname, like Palmer, on All My Children.” Huh? Rudy’s expression wondered. “Bradford? It sounds like Buford. Like an overbearing rich guy,” he sneered. I laughed. I was really keen on the idea, even though it diverted away from our family names. I figured I had some months to get Rudy used to the idea. “I think Ramon would be good. It was my brother Scott’s middle name. Remember how, a month or so before he died, he shook your hand? A gesture that said ‘I like you. I can see you care for my sister. Sorry if I was ever rude….’. I think to honor his memory would be great. It was also my paternal grandfather’s name. Double great.” Rudy listened, really took to heart in what I was saying. “I want to use my middle name, Antonio, too,” he confirmed. “Well, I have, also, always wanted to give a child of mine two middle names, just as my parents did with my older brother Jim,” I added.

We spent months bouncing names around, listened to the input of our soon-to-be big sister and big brother children.

When our third child was born, our son, we named him Bradford Ramon Antonio.

All three children’s names warm my soul when I say the names out loud, or if I hear them as they float into one ear and gently, quietly, climb out the other.

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empty-nesting

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Our nest was empty today.

And it felt sort of like when Rudy lived in Arkansas.

And I lived here, in California.

So many days came and went.

Both of us experiencing life without the other.

Mostly, only words said how we felt, or what we were thinking.

Gestures and body language played an intermitent role in our relationship.

Those are days that will forever be distant.

Days that cannot be redone.

Days that are, thank goodness, over.

But.

Today.

I am reminded of those distant days.

Because.

Here I am. Here we are.

In the house. Together.

Without kids.

No one is mumbling on the phone with friends.

No one is singing along to the lyrics booming from a computer.

No one is chatting. Talking about a day in the life of.….

And it hits me.

Both softly and a bit aggressively.

That life will be sort-of-like-yet-not-exactly-like-but-in-a-way-it-will-be-sliced-up-similar-to when Rudy lived there and I lived here.

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boys of summer, too

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Brad, once again, asked if he could go the beach with a different set of friends than those from the boys of summer at Arch Rock in Corona del Mar. And once again I said sure. This time he was heading to Huntington Beach to partake in the festivities planned for the last day of the US Open of Surfing.

The enormous crowd of people was overwhelming. Bare and flip-flopped feet seemed to cover every inch of the paved and sandy ground. Yet, under the heat of the sun, everyone seemed to be anticipating an awesome day. Fist bump greetings and smiling faces filled the area near Main Street, directly across from Huntington’s famous pier.

The bumper-to-bumper traffic, though, was not cool, so as I neared the boys’ destination, I told them to jump out here! In the middle of traffic. They did. Quickly. Yelling, thanks for the ride! as I maintained my stationary position. I waved, unsure if they even noticed my farewell as they were swallowed by the crowd.

As the day at the beach neared its end, as I was driving down Pacific Coast Highway, and noticed a few helicopters circling above, Brad called. Mom! There’s a riot going on here. On Main Street! After his brief explanation of what had happened I found myself, once again, tangled up with all the other vehicles in the area. I had to back track, go behind the main area so that I could find Brad and his pals on the other side of the action. Cruising along, snail-like, my jaw dropped, taking in the sight of the two rows of cops, 15-20 in each row, that I had to drive through. Brad wasn’t kidding! I mumbled to no one.  The officers were brandishing weapons of all sorts, blocking the line of cars from turning left or right onto Main Street, and also keeping an eye on all the pedestrians that were hanging around.

A bit intimidating, I admit.

The further I drove the heavier the crowd. People yelling, screaming, hoot and hollering. People caught up in the energy of the riot, saying that it was the cops fault, that they ruined everything by shooting tear-gas pellets into the crowd. When in fact, it was a fight that broke out. Some guys trying to up one another. Then other drunk and and not so drunk people started jumping in. Fighting. Arguing. Ironically, the cops used the tear-gas as a last ditch effort to dispel the chaos. They were hoping to regain control of an out-of-control situation. But it didn’t work. People became even more heated. People were nowhere near settling down.

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The boys jumped into the car, energized. I’m so hyper right now!, one of them yelled. Oh, my god, dude, that was so crazy! another added. And on it went during the ride home. Boys who got caught up in the energy of the night. The craziness of it all. They even fashioned masks made from their t-shirts wrapped around their faces, so they could breathe without sucking in the chemically induced tear-gas. As usual, I simply listened, occasionally asked a question – which they were more than happy to answer – and embraced the fact they were safe.

Yikes! I sighed under my breath.

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boys of summer

Recently Bradford asked if he could go to the beach with a few friends, just to hang out.

“Yea, sure,” I responded.

He’s thirteen, soon to be 14 years old. An age where the strings begin to loosen, allowing him to explore his world without mommy and daddy constantly breathing down his neck.

“Cool, thanks Mom. And don’t worry, I will be safe. I will check in with you regularly,” Brad tells me, knowing I need that peace of mind.

Later. Much later, after the sun had set and the day’s activities had been expended, Brad told me about Arch Rock in Corona del Mar, California; a natural structure within the confines of a private beach, solely for those multimillionaires who could afford such a lifestyle.

“Nice. You climbed it, then jumped?” I asked.

“Yep. So cool!”

“But, wait, you said you were at a private beach? How’d you get in?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

“Oh, well, we dodged a security guard and jumped the gate!”

Gulp! But, I figured the day was done, and lecturing, at this point wasn’t going to happen, not when, at that moment, I really was more interested in Arch Rock.

“Pictures?” I inquired.

Brad shoved his phone towards me, pictures ready to be browsed through.

“Oh, Arch Rock is HUGE!” I exclaimed.

“I know, right? It was awesome!”

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man vs. cats

  IMG_0996Our cats came into our lives, unexpectedly, a few years ago. I was a bit sneaky about the idea of the fluffy twins, taking advantage of the fact that Rudy was living and working in Arkansas, when Brad first approached me with a photo of their newborn cuteness. After a lot of thought, seriously, quite a bit, because, well, Rudy is allergic to cats. But, since he was permanently positioned in another state it made sense that during his visits we could make sure the kitty-cats steered clear of him. In the end, I told the kids Sure. Let’s do it. Let’s get ourselves a few cats! And so we did.

The girls joined our household, fit right in with our lifestyle. Enjoying a sense of well-being and comfort. All was good.

Except when Rudy first found out about the fact that, like never before, we were entertaining a pair of pretty kitties, in his absence. He ranted. He grunted. And did so for weeks until he was left with nothing more to say. Nothing more to add to the many reasons we should not have cats. Realizing and considering that he was there and they were here. So, instead, he slowly, over time, began to adjust to Cassandra and Skyler. 

By the time he returned to California, living here, for the long haul, Rudy had begun to accept their presence.

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Feelings began to imprint.

Last night, Rudy quietly opened our bedroom door, not wanting to interrupt my much needed shut-eye and whispered, firmly, without a show of passion, and refusing to say Skyler’s name,

“That colored cat is sitting out there, by the front door.”

“Oh, ok,” I attempt, running a hand through my already messed-up hair. I know he’s telling me this because no-way-no-how is he going to pick her up, because, obviously his allergies will attack, big time. As I was walking down the hall, toward the front door, Rudy continued.

“I saw her sitting out there, way out at the end of the steps. She was just sitting there, staring at the front door, so I opened it, figuring she’d walk in, and go straight to Roberto’s room.”

Roberto’s room. The room with a door to the backyard. Their home within our home, I think to myself. I smiled, knowing how hard this task must have been for Rudy, yet he was doing it for me, because he knows how much I care about our sweet cats.

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“She walked to the door, then stopped. I guess she saw it was me and wasn’t sure if she could trust me.”

Probably, I think.

Out loud I say, “Yeah, she’s trying to figure out what you mean to her. It’s not like she doesn’t like you, but she hasn’t developed a relationship with you either.”

“I’m fine with that. She’s not my cat,” he confirms.

I reach down and pick Skyler up, wrap my arms around her multicolored body.

Rudy doesn’t know it, but his face gives him away. He’s curious about her. Finds interest in who she is, who her sister is, her twin who looks nothing like her.

He no longer feels angry or negative about them; yet, neither does he feel the need to grasp them and love them.

But, he does wonder about them.

And most importantly, he’s decided to fully accept them. Accept them in a way that works for him. By watching and observing. Without touching.