parenting

by

A Death in the Family

Rudy was seventeen.
A senior in high school.
Enjoying life.
Having fun with friends.
Dating.
And very much involved in the game of basketball.

That was also the year that Rudy’s dad died.
In a tragic car accident.
Unexpectedly.

Rudy, his parents, and two siblings.
Were living in the small beach town of Tela.
In Honduras.
Enjoying a simple life.

One day.
His father came home.
Stating he’d been offered a job in another city.
7 hours away.

Can I stay here?
Live with Rolando?
His grandpa said it would be fine.
Rudy pleaded with his parents.

After much cajoling.
And discussion.
His parents agreed.
Knowing he’d be in good hands.

One evening.
Several months later.
While watching TV.
Rudy was sadly told.
Your father has suffered in an accident.

That’s all.
Nothing more.

Rudy just sat there.
Quiet.
Not sure what to think.
He walked outside.
In a daze.
Worried.

Out of nowhere.
A family friend suddenly hollered.
Rodolfo.
I can’t believe it!
I saw it on the news!
Your dad died!

Rudy’s eyes grew wide.
His jaw dropped.
His hands fell to his knees.
Legs bent.
Causing him to fall back onto his haunches.
His head fell forward.
Onto outstretched arms.
Splayed across kneecaps.

He was shocked.

He had misunderstood.
What he was originally told.
He thought his dad was seriously injured.

Not dead.

He spent the next hours in a stupor.
Not thinking clearly.
Trying to make sense of what he had been told.
Wondering, if possibly, there had been some kind of mistake.
That it wasn’t his dad that died.

He was rushed home.
To where his mom and siblings were living.
In the town of Tegucicalpa.
7 hours away.

That drive.
In a yellow bus.
Was the longest drive of his life.

A long drive to a funeral.
The unexpected funeral of his father.
Who had died an untimely death.

Within the following few days.
Rudy had to make a heartbreaking decision.
Either return to school or stay with his mom.
To be by her side.
While she grieved the loss of her husband.
His dad.

As hard a decision it was to make.
For a young seventeen year old.
He knew what he needed to do.

I need to go back, Mom.
I need to play ball.
To get my mind off this tragedy.
Of losing Dad.
His heart was breaking.
With every word.
As he told his grieving mother.

She nodded.
Tearfully.
Knew he was right.
He needed to move on.
To live.
To help him heal from the family’s overwhelming sadness.

Back in Tela.
Back at school.
With friends.
Rudy was overwhelmed.
With unwanted attention.
But.
He decided he would simply have to deal with it.

When he walked.
With his head down.
Into the auditorium of his high school.
To watch a game.
Many people held his hand.
Hugged and consoled him.
Saying how sad they were to hear about the loss of his dad.

In the days that followed.
Days that seemed to last forever.
Rudy completed his academic school year as best he could.
Trying to stay focused on his school work.
While working through the grief of losing his dad.
And his constant concern for his mom.

A graduation ceremony was held in the gym.
At the end of his final semester.
Where he played basketball.

All the seniors were expected to attend.
As their last right of passage.
Into the adult world ahead of them.

Rudy didn’t want to attend.
Didn’t see the point.
With his dad having just died.
Only a month before.
He didn’t think he had what it would take.
To celebrate his accomplishments.

His mom, though.
Was persistent.
She begged made him go.
Told him that he needed to close the final chapter.
Of his high school years.
Told him he’d regret it.
If he didn’t attend.

Rudy nodded.
Slowly.
Full of grief.
Said he’d go.
For his mom.

Rudy’s emotions took over.
He cried.
And cried.
That’s all he could do.
Was cry.

rudy:mom:HS grad
After his recognition.
He walked with his mom down the aisle.
As she held on tightly to his arm.
Happy and sad.
Tears of joy for Rudy.
And tears for the death of her spouse.

Rudy could not.
Muster the courage to attend.
The after party,
So, he quietly took a deep breath.
And walked out the door.
Leaving his school days behind him.

Ending one chapter of his life.
Renewing a familiar one.

Being back home with his mom.

by

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.

by

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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straight from the genes

He was sleeping. Soundly.

She sat on the edge of his newly purchased queen-sized bed. Watched him. Smiled.

He must have sensed her there, in his bedroom, because he slowly peeled his eyes open. Looked at her. Smiled.

“Morning,” she said quietly.

He mumbled something. Something incoherent. Then he closed his eyes. Shut.

She didn’t move. From the edge of his definitely-slept-in bed. Watched him. Smiled.

She saw his feet rub together. Nonstop. Slowly. In a way that soothed him.

Just like her.

She never noticed. Before now. That he had inherited her habit. Her habit that provides comfort.

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i like your face

FullSizeRender 2

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.”

by

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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UBER is teaching my son about the abuse of generosity

IMG_4834

One afternoon, late in the day, Brad walked into the living room, stood in front of the TV, yanked his phone out of his pants pocket, and as he was stating “I’m gonna head out to LA with my friends…” he looked at the face of the phone and finished with, “Never mind. I guess they left without me.” He went on to tell me that the plan was that a few of the guys were going into Los Angeles for about an hour simply to sell a much-wanted backpack to an interested party somewhere on Melrose.

He finished his story saying he was going to meet up with another friend at the park to ball-up while they waited for the other guys to return from their quick trip.

A few hours later I sent Brad a text asking “Sup?” in which he returned my response with a call back. He was upset. Not five minutes before my text, the friends who had driven in to LA, or rather were driven by a friend of a friend of a friend, contacted Brad pleading with him to pay for an UBER to take them back home. Apparently, their original driver had other things to do and didn’t mention she wasn’t planning on returning to town that evening.

Brad is a very generous kid in that he loves when he can pay for things, especially when he knows his friends carry empty wallets. He’ll buy them food, clothes, tickets to concerts, etc. because he is given a regular allowance. And I have no problem with his kindness as long as it fits into his budget. Plus, as his mom I seriously love that he thinks about others and sharing the wealth.

But, that evening when his friends needed a ride home from Los Angeles because apparently they hadn’t planned how they’d return, Brad was the first person they thought of, which sort of questioned the value of his friendship with them (because, remember they left without him, for no reason). To add to that his anger was exasperated when he told them he didn’t have enough cash in his bank account and one of the guys said, “Ah, man, don’t worry, the amount of the ride will go through. It’ll just leave your balance as a negative.” These dudes managed to make him feel bad so he gave in, and it was right at that moment he had returned my text with a call, which in turn pissed me off, not at Brad, but at his friends motives. I kept the thoughts to myself, wanting Brad to work through it on his own. To figure out how to handle his feelings, and the situation that has made him wonder what a good friend really is.

And to top it off, when they did return from LA later that night, the boys never told Brad what happened on Melrose, if they did indeed sell the backpack, if so, for how much, and worse “Thank you,” was never said, which irked Brad to no end. He ended up returning home that night because he couldn’t deal with these people. Sadly, he began to wonder if they really were his friends or if he was simply a cash cow.

As much as he loves giving, Brad’s realized that he  needs to be careful with the way he shares his generosity. The next day, the day after the UBER incident, as he was sitting in someone’s living room with the guys, feeling cooled-off, in control, someone said they needed an UBER. Brad kept his mouth shut, didn’t offer… anything, didn’t say a word until one of his friends asked if he would pay for the UBER. He matter-of-factly stated “No.” And that was that. Lesson learned.

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Just a Story, based on a Kitchen

Maurice's kitchen

While talking, a man and his wife enjoyed their morning cup of coffee in their rather small kitchen. They were content there, with its cozy feel and just enough space for the two of them.

Their kitchen had become their place, a place to reminisce about days long past. And to dream. Dream about what will be.

They talked about how they had met fifty years previous, and were married within the month. They talked about their five children, each of whom had moved on, living their own lives, and how proud of them they were. The man and his wife talked about their love for each other. A never-ending endearment that began so long ago.

One morning, the man rolled out of bed, smelling the aroma of their morning brew. He gently guided his feet into his worn slippers then headed to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth.

Not long after, he found his wife sitting at the kitchen table, with a pained look on her face, clutching her chest. He could see that she was trying to say something; instinctively he knew he needed to call 911.

She was having a heart attack.

While the dispatcher listened to the man, he rushed to his wife’s side, tugging on the coiled phone cord, willing it to stretch across the table. He pulled up a chair and sat, facing her, knee to knee. The man didn’t know what to do, how he could help, so he simply held her face in his smooth, wrinkled hands, while clinching the phone between his ear and shoulder.

Within minutes, he heard the blare of an ambulance’s arrival, causing him to drop the phone, and yell to the medical team, alerting them to their location. They rushed into the kitchen and quickly began attending to his wife, maneuvering about in the confined space. The man stepped back, almost into the adjacent room, watching, tears flowing from from his eyes.

His neighbors, a young guy and his pregnant wife and their two adorable kids, offered to drive the elderly man to the hospital.

“I love her so much,” he kept repeating over and over. “I don’t know what I would do without Anne.”

After having a stent inserted into her artery to prevent further heart attacks and a little over a week in the hospital, Anne returned home. Her husband cared for her, with the help of their children, who had flown in from various locations.

Post-recovery, after their children were gone, the man and his wife returned to their morning ritual, sitting in their small, cozy kitchen. Conversations flowed easily. They shared well-worn stories of their past, dreams about their future, and most importantly, conversations about the present moment.

One morning, after many mornings of enjoying each others company, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” they both hollered in unison, smiling at each other.

The door opened, and a small boy and his sister entered, holding a basket full of homemade muffins and freshly ground coffee. The kids’ mom, dad, and their newborn brother followed, greeting the man and his wife with a hug.

“Well, good morning!” the wife said, pulling the boy onto her lap.

“What’s this?” the man wondered, smiling coyly, when the little girl handed him a drawing.

It was a colorful picture of the man and his wife, sitting in their kitchen, drinking coffee, and talking. Over their heads was a big red heart.

“It’s you two. You are in love,” she giggled, looking at her brother, who laughed and proudly stated,

“We drew it together. For both of you.”

The kids’ mom and dad clasped hands and looked at the joyful man and wife, sitting comfortably in their kitchen. The young couple seemed to be dreaming about building a lifetime of cherished moments. Moments consistently filled with love.

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A boy, his XBOX, and a Soccer Game

 

He stumbles out of the bedroom with bedhead hair and heads straight to the adjacent bathroom where he wakes himself up by splashing water onto his sleep-swollen face, and uses minty paste to brush away night air that had settled in his mouth. She hears the toilet flush before he walks into the living room. He greets her with a “Hello” before he plops down on the couch, in front of the rather large TV. She smiles, noting the mess of hair; hair that doesn’t seem to be a concern of his. Hair that he tangles some more with the addition of headphones.

IMG_7827She stands in the kitchen, organizing counter space, while watching him through the cut-out square faux window that connects the two rooms. He sits, somewhat slouched, gamer remote comfortably held by both hands, fingers grasping both sides, giving him complete control of the game. From where she stands she can see the lowercase red b engraved on his black earbuds. She knows the headphones drown outside sound when she asks if he’d like a cup of hot chocolate. He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. She decides to leave him alone and just watch. Watch him enjoy his day off from school, playing an online soccer game.

His face twitches as he becomes part of the game. All she can hear is his side of the conversation. She hears him discuss plays he and his online, never met them before, teammates should try. He antagonizes his opponents. He laughs. He gets frustrated. “NO!” he yells. She hears him command a teammate to “CROSS! Contain him! Wow! Get the ball! Right here!” The online (pretend) stadium-crowd cheers. Loud. He’s so focused on the game that he doesn’t hear her when she asks him, again, if he’d like a hot drink. She decides later would be a better time. “Come on! Just shoot it!” he shouts. “BOO-YAAAAAAAA! I told you I was open!” he said into the mouthpiece, to a teammate. “Oh, that was beautiful! Now do a dipping curve. Nice! Line all the defenders at the post. Ah, almost!” He continued to narrate all the plays without realizing she was listening, watching, enjoying. He cheered. “Yes! Yes! We won! 4 to 3!”

She stopped watching him when he set the remote down, stood, and walked into the kitchen. She reached out the hot cup of cocoa she had prepared for him. “Oh, thanks,” he stated. “That game is so awesome!” he added, excitedly. “Oh, really?” she commented. “I would never have guessed.”