married life

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fifteen divided by five equals three

THREE FIVE-SENTENCE NANO-FICTION STORIES
(A challenge I was given 3 years ago that, obviously, I overlooked, or something)
Write three separate and unrelated stories, each consisting of exactly five sentences.



¹

“Stop!” she yelled. Silence. Everyone froze. The boy she was referring to smirked. But he quickly wiped that cockiness off his face when her seething eyes pierced the humor right out of him.

²

A man and a woman chatted. Lively conversation filled the air with happiness. The aroma of a home-cooked meal danced around the house. An opened front door filled with their children. Laughter followed and stayed for the weekend.

³

Ready. Or not. Here I write. Spilling my vulnerable soul. Into the hearts of humanity.

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Cry Baby, Cry

Anyone watching Jane the Virgin, on the CW? You’ve got to if you’re not. So funny! So soap opera-y. All kinds of twists and turns. Great cast. Great storyline. Fun watch.

One scene that stood out this morning, while watching a recording of this past Monday’s show (S2|E9 “Chapter Thirty-One) is how Jane (the main character played by Gina Rodriguez) deals with her baby waking up at all hours of the night, crying.

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What a blast to the past! Elizabeth was my baby-in-training. Without much thought, just lots of common sense, when Liz arrived to that point when she cried during the night, was no longer a ‘newborn’, rather she was around the 9 month mark, I knew I had to break her of the potential bad habit of wailing unnecessarily and me running to her, attending to her every whim. Hence, the “Let her cry.” situation started, no matter Rudy’s apprehension.

During the show’s episode, Jane spends lots of time reading up on material explaining the value of gentle, soothing ways to help babies sleep through the night, which disrupts everyone else’s sleep, and irritates Grandma, the character I most identify with. She tells Jane to just let Mateo (the baby) cry. Jane thinks that’s a mean, selfish remedy.

Back in my new-parenting days, my adorable, bright smiling Elizabeth was beginning to recognize and understand (as I am sure we are all attuned to, even at such a young age) routines, our daily happenings and what happens when. So, for me, 7:30 pm was the prime time to put her down to sleep for the night. Beforehand she ate (her delicious jarred baby food, a warmed bottle of milk) and had a soothing bath. I swathed her in comfortable cotton baby wear, gently laid her in her crib, kissed her goodnight, told her how much I loved her, then walked out of the room, closing the door behind me. (Note: Rudy was part of this routine, though there was a long span of time he was working the graveyard shift, therefore Elizabeth’s sleep routine was almost solely my own).

Anyway, five minutes later she began to cry. In my heart-of-hearts I knew I was doing the right thing by leaving her to cry herself to sleep (plus, a doctor once told me that Elizabeth was strengthening her lungs with all the hollering she did, which I considered a healthy bonus). Knee-deep into the routine was when Rudy experienced the crying for the first time (because of a night off from work). He’d sit outside her bedroom door and feel for her. He’d shed tears, and say things like “Just let me hold her for a minute.” but I knew I had to be firm, not really because of the crying but because I was trying to establish a routine for Liz.

It took about two weeks, maybe two and a half, for Elizabeth to realize her crying wasn’t getting her the attention she desired so that when, one night, I followed the same routine I always did she watched me walk out of the room, heard me close the door, and fell asleep.

Allowing her to fall asleep on her own, without me spending time rocking her, holding her, feeding her at all hours of the night, in the long run benefitted all of us, but mostly Elizabeth. As she grew older, bedtime was just that. Bedtime. She never challenged us. She knew 7:30 pm was the end of her day and as she got older and the time changed to 8:00, then 9:00, then 10:00. And she accepted each time frame. And overall, in the end, Elizabeth loved bedtime, going to sleep after a long day of play, school, or whatever.

Jane’s grandma has it right, in my opinion. Just let Mateo cry himself to sleep. The benefits out-way anything else.

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I Am PRO-quiet house.

IMG_1926One afternoon, while feeling the crowding of loud voices shedding from my ears, noise from the activity of an ordinary day in the classroom, and just as I was halfway down the hallway, heading towards my bedroom to change into my loose-fitting sweats and an oversized hoodie, mentally prepping myself for some quiet time and smut TV,

my son rips open his bedroom door, so forcefully that I could hear the whoosh! of wind, and he states,

“Our house is so boring. It’s so quiet!” He said it as if quietness is a bad thing. I leaned against the linen closet door and as patiently as I could I said,

“Well. If you worked all day in a classroom, with very energetic ten year olds, you too would not think a quiet house was boring. Instead, you would relish the quiet. Dream about quiet. Anticipate quiet. And you would never ever call your house boring.”

“Okay. Yeah. I can see that. From your perspective, anyway.” And he didn’t complain again.

Not until another afternoon. Months later.

“I get it, you work with kids and need downtime from all the activity happening throughout your day. But, man, when I am at my friends, and I mean all the different people’s homes I’ve been in, and spend the night, the parents never, and I mean nev-er, tell us to be quiet. The parents go to bed earlier, like you, and we play games, watch TV, talk. All with the volume pumped up.  And no one says a word. No on tells us to be quiet,” my son rambles on.

“I don’t have an answer for you,” I say, without apology.  “Geez, seriously, I’m not sure why the parents wouldn’t want you guys to quiet down at a certain time, but me, no way, I need my rest. I need quiet. I need my sanity. Seriously.”

I’m trying to wrap my head around the concept of kids having control of the home, but my son doesn’t seem to see it that way.

“I’m just saying, I don’t know anyone, and I mean any-one, that has rules about quieting down,” he added, seemingly just as confused, but on a different level.

“Well, when I was growing up,” I reminisced , “whichever house I was at, I don’t think we even were told to be quiet, we just were. For me, that’s the norm.”

I didn’t say it, but maybe the problem is that today’s parents, while trying to be cool, to fit in with their children, and to be their friend, are making the mistake of also believing that it’s okay for kids to Rule-the-Roost.

A few weeks, maybe months later, my son walks into the house, after a weekend spent with his friends.

“Ah, this is my sanctuary,” he said, without much thought. “I love going to my room, closing myself in.”

Go figure, is what I didn’t say.

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Sensitivity Across the Genders

girl_boy talkingHere’s the thing… we are all sensitive, all of us, male and female. Yet, and I am speaking in the most general sense, females tend to show their emotions more. Males hold it all in, having been taught that big boys don’t cry.

Except when in a vulnerable moment. Like when a husband is sitting next to his wife, watching a girly show.

I was watching Project Runway, Jr. (Love it!) whilst drinking a cup of morning coffee, observing talented kids create amazing pieces of clothing, when Rudy wandered in. He sat, sipped from his steaming cup, and began watching the show with me. (Unusual, for sure.) No words exchanged between the two of us. Until, he became invested in what was happening, commenting on how extraordinary it is that designers are capable of making an outfit from a large piece of colored cloth.

“Kinda like you with cooking,” I said. “I’m impressed with how you can make something delicious from what looks to be nothing in the fridge.” He smiled and continued to zone in on the young teens entertaining us via the tube.

We critiqued the outfits the kids had dressed the models in.

“Whoa, nice outfit!” Rudy said. “Looks exactly like the style a teenager would buy.”

“Yikes! Those pants are way too big, aren’t they?” I wondered, as I watched a model strut down the runway. He agreed, saying that the wide-legged jeans looked very uncomfortable, and that that designer may be the one voted out because of it. (She wasn’t.)

As the judges began presenting their constructive criticism, before they decided who to boot off the show, both of us felt for each kid. So young. So enthusiastic. So worthy. And when it came to the two final designers, standing there, tears welling up, ready to spill out, but unable to due to the courage both kids showed, I heard Rudy sniffling, breathing in choppy breaths. He rubbed the top of his head, quickly, a gesture he does when he’s very emotional. And then he wiped his eyes.

And believe me, I was weepy, too. We didn’t want to see those kids not making it in the big-wide-world. We were behaving like parents, as if those kids belonged to us. So, when the judges didn’t just send one kid away, but both, Rudy lost it. He had to leave the living room and gather his emotions. Put them back in place, confine them. Man up.

He returned. Normal. Even-keeled, (on the emotional spectrum), and said (again) how impressed he was with the talent of such young kids. I agreed.

 

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Relationships

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Back when I met Rudy, in the early 80’s, it was simply a happenstance. A moment in time where we both were in the same place, at the same time. Nothing planned, just what many may define as meant to be. And to confirm that belief, all I can say is that we met at a tupperware party. Generally, a party for women. Women who’d sit around, socialize, and admire all the sturdy plastic food-saver containers.

At that point in my life, I was still living at home and had no need for such well-made items but I did want to hang out with my good friend who was the invitee to the party. Rudy, on the other hand, and a friend, were asked by the friend’s sister if they’d like to go to a party. Just that, a party. Not, you know, Par-tay! But he misunderstood. “Sure,” Rudy said, imagining all the crazy-dance-like-there’s-no-tomorrow-let’s-have-another-drink fun that’d be happening.

And, the rest is history, so says just about everyone.

Flash forward to 2016.

A conversation ensued with my son, him claiming it’s so difficult to meet anyone, anywhere.

“Not so,” I responded.

“Oh, Mom, I know, I know, you and Dad have the story of the century. You met, you dated, fell in love, married… blah, blah, blah.”

“I’m just saying that it does happen as simple as that.”

“Not these days. That’s why people are always searching on sites for dating, looking for compatibility and companionship because it isn’t simple.”

Sigh.

Later, I noticed his focus was solely on his phone. He laughed, said things like “Holy Shit!”, and seemed to be texting, whoever.

And it dawned on me, right then and there. The reason this new generation is having such a hard time meeting each other is that their faces are always in their phones. I see it all the time, everywhere. Two friends sitting next to each other, texting instead of talking. A girl not realizing a guy is smiling at her, a guy who could have been her future mate. Two people, on vacation, not truly enjoying the view because they’re searching for the perfect picture to share with their followers. Because, you know, a picture is worth a thousand words. And a conversation is well, just that, a conversation.

All I’ve got to say about relationship building is Drop the phone, people, Drop the phone.

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Watch This. Listen, too.

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I seriously love to people-watch. I am enthralled with the social aspect of human nature.

Every avenue of relationships pique my interest. I am oh-so curious how people, all kinds of people, everywhere, all over the place, in various situations react to this, that, and the other.

I like to dig deep into what is happening, simply by watching. Watching. Watching. Watching. And listening. Trying to decipher what is really going on. Deep. Down. Below. The. Surface.

I wonder, quite often, what would I do without people. People all around. People adding a dimension to my life that deepens my feelings toward the world at large.

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Be True to Yourself

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I get it, I do. In this day and age, in order to be considered cool, you need to be hip with what’s going on around you, and even more so, follow the trends out there. Whatever they are.

Just be careful, though, that the outside appearance you possess doesn’t interfere with your inner true self. The uniqueness you possess. The confidence you behold. The curiosity you cause.

Always maintain who you truly are. An original you. Possessing a demeanor that’s very personal, and uniquely yours. Living your life, finding your dreams, and feeling your happiness.

Recently, I listened to someone talk about how original they are, how no one is like them. Later, I logged onto Instagram™ only to be bombarded by photos depicting the same originality, claiming that no one is like them (either). They all looked the same. So cool. So hip. So like the latest trend.

Well, I can only hope that they each think, and feel, as individuals, true in their own thoughts, pursuing a life as individual as they are.

Yet.

It is what it is. I understand. We all want to fit in. Know what’s what. Participate in life, similarly to everyone else. Feel part of the crowd.

Be careful, though, because that’s where your true self can get lost. Lost in the crowd. You are no longer unique, but rather you’ve become just like everyone.

Unless. You uphold the value of Be True to Yourself. Then. That’s when. You will truly feel fulfilled.

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Lingo

Ah, to be 16 years old. So young, so carefree, so in tune with the latest lingo.

Bradford is one of those kids, one of those boys, who tend to keep up with not only the latest fashion, but he is also very hip to the language used by teens, the “I’m so cool” words which are generally foreign to adults.

Words like Bae (new babe), Basic (something typical), On Point (excellent quality), On Fleek (next level of perfection), TBH (to be honest), Zero Chill (uncool on so many levels), Slay (amazing success), Rachet (hot mess – although Brad simply stated it meant ugly) and Sick (cool).

So many more, so don’t care.

Rudy and I, when feeling humorous, use some of these words just to enhance the entertainment in our kids lives.

Rudy purchased a new hoodie.

I took his picture to send to Brad, knowing he’d appreciate the Jordan pullover.

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Then Rudy says:

“He’s going to say sick.”

“For sure,” I respond, in a know-it-all voice.

“Yeah, sick. Because my style is so sick,” Rudy cracks up.

“So sick,” I laugh, losing my composure.

And then my phone tweets. I’ve got a text.

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“Clean?” Rudy says softly, as if in contemplation.

“Clean. With money bags,” I state, nonchalantly.

Ah, to be 16 years old. So young, so carefree, so in tune with the latest lingo.

 

Positivity
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Positivity

It’s not always easy being positive, thinking the good thoughts, believing everything will be fine.

Like anyone, I can fill my head with what’s not right, with a fuck-this-shit attitude.

But.

For me.

It’s worth the simple effort it takes to get to that place, the place in my mind where everything feels serene.

Yay! for me.

I have been gifted a natural ability to move-on, get over it, think positive, hone in on what’s important, and find peace.

Simply. Quickly.

And I can do this, feel positive, faster, way faster, than I fall prey to negativity.

For me, for anyone, for all of us, the reality is that the value of life is what matters, not who is right, who is wrong, or who wins.

“The purpose of our lives is to be happy.” Dalai Lama

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an unexpected date

IMG_4835Well now, so it seems, I have a date this evening, with Rudy. We’re not dressing up, nor do we have reservations anywhere fancy-shmancy. Nope, just us, me and him. Here. At home. Watching a movie. Eating pizza.

Here’s the thing.

Rudy and I don’t date. Not really. We both get caught up in everyday life and tend to take our relationship for granted. The fact that we are here. In this house. Together. Every day. All the time. And presumably always will be. Has become second nature that sometimes we forget the importance of relating as a couple because we are so accustomed to simply living as two people sharing a life and a home together. As roommates might.

So, when Rudy sauntered into the room and asked me if I’d like to spend the evening with him I couldn’t resist the feeling of traveling back in time, when we were young and held the world in our hands. Without constraints or obstacles. During a time when a date was the most important thing we could do. To draw us closer. To bound us as one. So that we could fall in love. And feel happy.