relationships

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I AM the wind beneath my wings

Rudy and I had been married for about a year and nine months when I quit my job as a receptionist in a medical laboratory and returned to school to finally earn my Bachelor’s Degree in Liberal Studies.

Rudy looked at me.
Looked at my round belly.
My 6 months pregnant belly.

On Monday, following the Friday I said “Adios” to answering phones, I headed out the door, new backpack and supplies slung over my shoulder. I was ready to be a student again, after taking several years off. And before I knew it, the semester was finished. Leaving me exhausted, swollen, and uncomfortable. My final class ended on Thursday, December 17th. Elizabeth was born on December 20th.

lizCSUF

I spent six weeks with her before my next semester started.

Attending classes, being a new mom, a wife, and simply trying to find time to study and sleep was an adjustment I constantly adjusted to. But, I managed. I succeeded. I did it. Eventually.

During my final semester, the last semester before I would walk on stage to accept my degree, I took Elizabeth with me to one of my classes. She was almost 3 year olds by that time. I took her to experience what I was doing in the classroom as a student. She must have been impressed because she spent the two hours there taking notes (drawing really) just as she saw me doing.

I took Elizabeth with me, not only for the fun of it – but more importantly, to show her what it is to be educated and to demonstrate that with perseverance anything is possible. Anything.

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yawn, true story about 8 year old me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Innie and Outie

Approximately five years  ago,

as I drove, with Liz next to me, sitting shotgun, the boys ages 19 and 11 were having a discussion in the backseat of the car…

Roberto: “I have an innie.”
Brad: “I have an outie.”
Roberto: “You do? No you don’t.”
Brad: “Yes I do. I’m an outie, like you.”
Roberto: “But, I’m an innie.”

At this point Roberto looked over at his brother, curious. Wondering what Brad was talking about.

Roberto: “Do you even know what we are talking about?”
Brad: “Yeah. Innies and outies.”
Roberto: “But do you know what that means?”

Brad starred at him for a minute. Confused. Wondering what Roberto was talking about.

Roberto: “You don’t do you? You don’t know what we are talking about.”
Brad: “Vaginas and penises?”
Roberto: “Oh, my gosh!” No! Innies and outies are the kind of belly button you have.”
We all laughed. All at once. Me. Liz. Roberto. And then Brad.

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A Boy and the Lies He Tells

IMG_1015Most 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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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.”

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EavesDropping

Rudy arrived early to work, as usual, and sat at his desk, going over the day’s expectations. As he quietly nibbled on a light breakfast, while checking emails, he overheard a nearby conversation.

“Oh. You’re early this morning!” an employee exclaimed, speaking to her manager.

The employee was decorating her manager’s cubicle with balloons, hoping to surprise the higher up for her birthday; a tradition throughout the department, to celebrate people’s special day. The employee had just inflated one of the several balloons, and was pinching it so that the air would not escape.

In the meantime, Rudy continued to work while eavesdropping on their banter.

“So, how does it feel to be 50?” the employee asked her manager.
“I’m not 50, I am only 43!” the manager responded firmly, with attitude; yet, embarrassed.

Just then, the balloon the employee was holding left her grasp, deflating, making a slow blub-blub-blub sound, as it spun towards the floor.

“Oh, I thought…,” the employee tried to redeem herself.
“I guess!” the manager responded.

Rudy slapped his hand over his mouth, holding in the laughter that was trying to escape. His body began to shake as he tilted his head back, opened his eyes wide, and continued to press his now-fisted hand onto his pursed lips. He lowered his right elbow onto his desk, then the left one, and slowly lowered his face into both hands, sucking in air, then slowly exhaling.

“Awkward!” he thought as he slowly shook his head to and fro, while the manager stomped off.

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Shades of Grey

Living together has its downs. It’s easy to neglect the one you love. To live, day-in, day-out, with the assumption that forever is forever.

I remember a moment in time when Rudy and I were first living together, before we were married. After a day at the beach, I spent the evening lying on the couch, lightly wrapped in only a bed sheet. I had burnt my skin so bad that it hurt to put any type of clothing on. I was in pain and very uncomfortable. After spending a few hours readjusting myself into a never going to find it position, Rudy announced he was going to a friend’s place to watch a game on TV. Seriously, I wondered. Seriously, he said, as a matter-of-fact. My anger took over, immediately, taking my focus off the sunburn, as I marched into the bedroom, dressed, and left our apartment, thinking how I would never leave him when he obviously needed my help. I was mad because he neglected to think of me.

And.

Well.

Living separately has its ups. Sometimes, when striving for simple happiness, living separately can be rewarding.

I remember the two weeks before Rudy and I were going to be married. We had decided that I would return to my parents home, and live there for those weeks leading up to our nuptials. We also decided not to see each other during those separated days. We were to have no interaction together, aside from phone calls. There would be no hand holding, no kisses, and especially, no pillow talk. Just the daily Hello, How are you?, Have a good day!, and I love you. Our reunion was fun. Worth the separation. And it cemented the fact about how much we wanted to be together. No matter what our living situation was.

Living together.

Living separately.

Either way, make life worth the effort; especially, for each other.

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Being Human

roberto age 4:5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Homelessness

I saw her.
About two years ago.
On my drive to work.
A mid-forty(ish) woman.
Average – not too thin not too heavy – build.
Shiny, blond, neatly combed hair.
On the corner of Whittier and Greenleaf.
Sitting on a bench.
Watching the overflow of traffic.
Sadness abounding from her face.

I saw her.
Today.
For the ump-teen time.
Skinny.
Dull, dishwater-blond hair.
Lines etched into her face.
On her corner.
Wandering, circling around her pile of stuff.
Lots of stuff.
Talking.
To herself.
Waving at passing cars.
A detached from reality look on her face.

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“I Was A Runner!”

mom age 10

She was a young girl. Betty Lou was.

She was ready for the school day to start that day. She was just waiting to hear the warning bell. Hear it blare through the window. Making its way up from down below. Telling her to get her tail down the hill and into class before the final bbrrrrriiiiiiiinnngggg went off.

Ring it did. She grabbed her things. Ran out the door. Down the long slope. Through a tunnel.

Graceful.

My mom was reminiscing about a time in her life. Remembering when she was a youth. An energetic girl who knew how to run. Run with strength.

With Grace.

“I was a runner!” she said with glee. “I ran like a deer. Bounding along. There was nothing stopping my agility.” She hugged herself. “I was great! I just love my young self!” She laughed. Wriggled herself in the chair. Happy with the memory.

Betty Lou ran with confidence. Rounded a familiar corner. Saw the man with his hands on his hips. Checking out his work. Or admiring it. “Did the cement look level?” he seemed to wonder. She didn’t have time to even considered what he might have been thinking. She just kept running. Running.

Stepped right into that square of cement. Splat! went her foot. It only took her a second to decide to just keep going. Getting to school on time was of the utmost importance. She never even glanced back. Didn’t know what the man was thinking.

“He probably stood there, scratching his head, wondering where the foot print had even come from,” she said.

We laughed.

Made some jokes.

Betty Lou made it to school on time.

Not a second to spare.