parenting

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Will the REAL Santa please stand up?

“What are you looking at?” Rudy asked her angrily. He was in a mood. And not a good one.

Elizabeth continued to look at him. Her mouth hung open. She said not a word in answer to what seemed a ridiculous question.

Ten minutes before Rudy’s interruption, Elizabeth held up a receipt she had found while milling in my things. “Aren’t these the toys I got for Christmas? And Roberto’s, too?” she inquired.

She was 5 years old. And wise beyond her years.

Uh oh I thought.

“Um. Well,” I tried. “It’s just that it looks like everything we got.” Elizabeth had a knack for decoding and understanding written language. “Is DAD Santa?” she asked. She just wanted an honest answer. “Well,” I attempted again. I knew the value of telling the truth. I hated to take the magic away from her, but I also knew she trusted me to be honest with her. “Yes. Dad is Santa. We bought, wrapped, and surprised you and Roberto with your Christmas gifts.”

That’s when Rudy forced the bedroom door open. His angry face was nowhere near the image of white bearded Santa. He stormed back out. Elizabeth’s mouth continued to hang open.

I hugged her small frame.

A piece of innocence lost. For a little girl.

Roberto hung on to Santa until he was 10 years old. He refused to believe the other kids at school claiming, “Santa is fake!”. Roberto just knew Santa was real. There was no way he wasn’t. Yet, the more he heard kids shouting “fake!” the more he wondered if they were right and he was wrong.

“Mom, is Santa real?” he asked me one day. “What do you think?” I quizzed. “I still believe he is real, but a lot of kids are saying he’s not.” “Follow your heart,” I encouraged him.

Days, weeks, or months later, the kids and I were at the mall. Shopping for nothing in particular. Just an average day. Probably a day in the spring. “Humph. I didn’t get the makeup I wanted from the Easter Bunny,” Elizabeth began. “Well, I didn’t have time…. I mean, the Easter Bunny didn’t – ,” I started, trying to cover my mistake. “What!” Roberto yelled. “I knew it! There is no Santa, or the Easter Bunny, or even the Tooth-Fairy, is there?”

An open conversation ensued as we continued to walk around the mall. Like Elizabeth, Roberto appreciated being told the truth.

Another piece of innocence lost. For the middle child. Our oldest boy.

Years later, as I was relaxing reading on the bed in my room, Bradford slowly walked in. He was 6 or 7 years old.

“Mom, just tell me the truth. Don’t lie to me. Is Santa Claus real?” He was looking down at his hands, wringing them together. “You sure you want to know?” I asked, knowing he already knew the answer.

He looked at me. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “Yes. I want to know.” “Santa is not real. He is the spirit of Christmas. The magic,” I said. I didn’t want him to lose the joy of the holiday. The excitement.

He ran out of my room, back to his own room. To cry. To let the tears wash away his sadness. Not long after, he ran back into my room, plopped his upper body onto my bed, legs dangling off the edge, and looked directly into my eyes. “Does that mean the Easter Bunny isn’t real either?!”

“Yeah, sorry. Not real,” is all I could think to say.

“Elizabeth and Roberto know?” he questioned. “Yep. They didn’t want to spoil it for you. Wanted you to enjoy the idea,” I told him. “So, now I will have to keep it a secret? So little kids can still have fun,” he quietly mumbled. “Uh huh,” I answered, knowing he didn’t want to be treated like a baby.

A piece of innocence lost. For the last child in our family.

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face matters

He looked at himself in the mirror. Just stared at his reflection, pondering the quarter-sized red rash on his right cheek. The other over-sized looks like a big mosquito bite rash, above the cheek rash, on the edge of his right eye caused him to lean in, close to the mirror, just to see what exactly was happening to his skin. “I don’t get it,” he said, irritated. “Why do I even have this mess on my face?”

“Just keep applying the cream the doctor gave you. It should take a day or two before you see it looking better,” his mom said calmly.

The next morning, as he was getting ready for his first day of seventh grade, he, again, simply stared at himself, shaking his head to and fro.

His mother was watching him, hoping her close-by presence wasn’t a distraction. She was curious about his behavior towards the sudden change to his lovely little face. She didn’t want to interfere with his concentration. Didn’t want to make him feel worse. The less she said the easier it will be for him to handle as he walked around the halls at school, trying to look cool.

“I feel like crying,” he stated out loud, as if to himself, yet looking in her unhidden direction. She could hear a slight choke in his voice. She kept quiet. No need to baby him. That will only make him actually begin to cry. Which will then cause him to announce, “I am not going to school.” She knew him so well. Knew when to keep her thoughts to herself. Let him work it out on his own.

As she watched him she began to think about people. People she has seen on the streets. In TV documentaries. Read about in autobiographies. People who have disabilities, and deformities. On a daily basis, for life. She considered it interesting that her son had become insecure with a minor it will be gone in just a few days rash while there are people who must come to terms with their appearance. Learn to master confidence, every day; anew. Prevail no matter how often strangers stop and stare at them. She is sure they must adapt daily, love who they are, and move on. As best they know how. She is also aware that this is not the time to bring up that subject with her son. They’ve had the conversation before. About people. They will again. Just not today. Today is his day to feel the anguish. His anguish. No matter what anyone thinks his problem is huge. For him.

Interestingly, her son is full of charisma. The kind of kid that others tend to gravitate towards without knowing why. On the one hand she is grateful he doesn’t fully realize the impact he has on others, yet it’s so odd he just doesn’t see it. He could do anything, everything. Be a trend setter. Others would follow. Yet, there he was, looking in the mirror so worried what his peers at the middle school would say about the large rash on his face. She gets it. His mother does. He is not used to seeing himself with facial marking, and there they were. Like any of us, when something is different, he overly wondered what others would say. What they would think.

She wanted to tell him it would be fine. That the others kids might notice, but won’t care. They like him for who he is, not for his looks. She wanted to tell him but she knew he’d just shoo her away, tell her she doesn’t get it. So there she stood quietly observing her son. Observed him while he gently placed a not too big not too small band-aid on his cheek, covering his problem. He fixed his hair just right. Looked in the floor-length mirror to make sure his outfit was a good choice for day-number-one.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to be late on my first day,” he said as though nothing was wrong.

Later, in the afternoon, when he climbed into the car after school, she asked him how his day went.

“Fine.”

“Any problems with your face?” his mom asked.

“Well, not really. Lots of people asked what happened. I said it was just a rash.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. No one really even cared.”

She smiled. She thinks he is slowly learning how to handle situations. Situations that involve his appearance. Slowly. Yet, learning.

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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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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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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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i wish i could talk to my students the way i talk to my children

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Kids want to know. Want to have the conversation. Want to hear it from someone they trust. Kids want to talk about sex. They do. They know it’s out there. They know it’s happening. But they have no one to talk to. Because? Well, because it’s taboo for kids so young to have that conversation. I mean, really, how many adults believe that if you talk to kids about sex that kids will take that information and use it. Use it for real, and actually go out and have sex. Lots of adults believe it. Believe if you talk about it, that means you are giving them permission to act on it. Or, they believe the opposite. Don’t talk about it. Even if kids ask. About sex. About what it is. Or what this or that means. Because, well, it’s embarrassing for them, the adult, to talk about an adult thing with such a young kid. That the best way to handle such a conversation is to ignore it, and to change the subject as quickly as you can. But, I am telling you, kids want to know. They want to have the conversation. With someone who is informed, and will tell them the truth.

Long ago, when Elizabeth was, maybe, five years old, she asked me where babies come from. I answered her with a question of my own. Where do you think they come from? She thought for a moment, and in her small, young girl voice she questioned From here? pointing to her belly button. Not that I was shy about the conversation, in fact I embraced it, loved where it was going, but I also knew she was teeny tiny and could only handle so much. So I simply answered something like, Sounds good. And that was that. Over the years she’d asked simple questions that I knew were building up to more in-depth important sex questions, and every time, without hesitation, I’d answer her, based on her question. But, wait, she wondered one day, how does the baby get in there? She must have been about 8, 9, or 10 years old at the time, and I matter-of-factly told her. Yes I did! I knew she was ready for the info so I told her, using vocabulary she’d understand. Oh, is what she said, with interest, seemingly happy to know something maybe many of her friends knew nothing about. And so it went. We talked. About everything sex. Over the years. We talked openly, without embarrassment. And, along the way, her two younger brothers learned that they too could ask me questions and talk about things they wanted to know. Things about sex. Things they heard, or read about but didn’t understand what it meant. They’d ask as casually as if they were asking what was on TV. And, you know what, the best thing is – for Liz, my one and only daughter, a girl I wanted to grow up with a strong sense of self respect – did just that.  When high school was all said and done for her, the main thing that prevented her from ever doing anything too emotional with a boy was due to our open conversations. About sex. And me explaining how the intense emotions involved should be saved for when she was ready to handle such relationships. I know this because she told me so.

I wish I could talk to my students the way I talk to my children because, they too, are curious and want to know the facts. They know things, and have heard things. I mean, how can they not with all the information so available to them. Information that makes them wonder, interests them. But really, all they want to know are the facts. And they just wish someone would talk to them. Have a conversation with them. To help them make wise choices. That’s all, really.

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quick

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Stranger-danger was put into play one afternoon when Roberto, who was 5 years old at the time, and I approached our new home. I was driving very slowly down the street and noticed a man slow his pace as I pulled the car into our driveway. Roberto, I said, still inside the car, when we get out of the car I need you to be as quick as you can, as we walk to the front door. You cannot take your time and move slowly today. There is a man standing nearby, a stranger, and I just want to get inside quickly. Got it? He nodded, confirming he understood what I was saying. Then I pushed the car door out, wide, while saying, Come on, let’s go. I completely ignored the guy. Until, out of my peripheral, I noticed he began walking towards us, coming down the drive. Instinct kicked in. I shoved Roberto behind me, protecting him from possible, I don’t know, harm? I just looked at the man, as I reached my arm around, pressing my palm against Roberto’s back. Hello, he said. I’m just on my way home. I live right down there, he continued, pointing to the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. I just wanted to introduce myself. And welcome you and your family to the neighborhood. Oh hi, I said feebly. Nice to meet you.

Like any good parent would, I taught my children about stranger-danger. Not always an easy task considering I also wanted to teach them to be kind to their fellow man. This can be somewhat confusing to their tender minds. Be kind but don’t talk to someone you don’t know, I might say. I never felt one hundred percent sure about how to approach the topic with my kids, but overall I think they got the gist of what I meant.

Roberto looked back at the guy as we walked in the front door. Wasn’t he a stranger? Why did you talk to him? He asked.

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news

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Rudy and I were ready for a child, having had planned for an additional family member to join us for the past several months. We both believed there was no perfect moment to bring a baby into the world, but rather that bringing a newborn child would be perfect. Thus, the joy of reproducing began.

At the time, I was working for a medical laboratory, as their secretary. My job was to answer the phone, file information, and update clients payments. I had only been there for about three months, when, one morning, instinct told me I was pregnant with my first child. When my wondering words fell into the ears of a coworker, an expert phlebotomist, someone who draws blood, she immediately pulled me to the back room and performed a quick blood test.

Later, that same afternoon, the two of us, husband and wife, were sitting at a nearby Burger King, unexpectedly having lunch together.

So, why did you call me for lunch? he asked. I don’t think you’ve ever done that before. Everything OK?

Oh, yeah. Everything is great, I said calmly, quietly. I reached for his hand. I have some good news.

Rudy looked at me, trying to read my face.

Yes? he cautiously asked.

I stretched over the laminate tabletop and kissed him on the nose. A smile spread across both our faces.

Really? he exclaimed. Then he jumped up, pulled me up out of my swivel seat, and hugged me.