teens

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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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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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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.

 

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A Boy. A Teen. A Birthday.

IMG_3021Those of you with teens know how it is, people exclaiming how hard life must be raising a kid within the realm of disobedience, rebellion, and all together a know-it-all attitude. A kid who doesn’t care about much, except themselves.

Well, I am here to say: Not in my household, not with my kid.

(Ok, ok, I admit nobody is perfect, there are days…… but today’s writing isn’t about that.)

Because today I celebrate Bradford Ramon Antonio. Today, he turns 15 years old.

Brad defies the term of what many people describe a teenager to be.

He is very conscientious, well-mannered, respectful, helpful, polite, inquisitive, and very aware. He’s a conversationalist, open to any discussion. Brad talks about his day, his life, his dreams, desires, and overall hopes about not only his future but the future of our world.

I am his mom.

And I am here to report.

Brad isn’t simply a teenager. He’s much more than that. His voice is as valid as mine. His perspective on life is his own. And like any teen, he simply wants respect, to feel valued and heard. To know that he is surrounded by love. Love of family, friends, and a joyful life. He wants to believe that when he falls there will always be someone to help him up.

Brad is a boy. Mentally and physically working his way through his teen years. Learning. Trying. Expressing. Enjoying. Succeeding.

And so today, today is the day, to say,

Happy Birthday, to the one and only, Bradford Ramon Antonio!

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I’m an Introvert.

IMG_5263There’s an article going around on Facebook, you know the kind that always have a number in the title, like this one, 23 Signs You’re Secretly An Introvert by Carolyn Gregoire | The Huffington Post.

Well now, I zoomed right in, only to confirm what I already knew. I’m an introvert. And it’s no secret, unless of course you don’t know me, then well, maybe it is a secret, by default.

The article basically explains to the reader how to spot an introvert, that they aren’t always so obvious, and it even goes on to say how an introvert may not know they are indeed introverted. So here I sit, wondering, How is it that someone who’s shy, or withdrawn, or engaging with an inner hidden feeling of anxiety due to socializing, doesn’t know they are an introvert? I am guessing here, that the first ones to read such an article do so because it relates to them. Meaning, an introvert reads this article because it’s fun to read what they already know. Everyone enjoys things that pertain to them, personally. Right?

I’ve known forever, or at least as long as I began socializing, that I am an introvert. In my younger years, I was very uncomfortable with the prospect of being in situations with groups of people. Rather than engaging, I stood back worrying what everyone else was thinking and anxious about joining in. But as the years have passed, and though I still consider myself drawn-in, I socialize, hold conversations, and am overall content around others. Yet, rather than trying to be a person I’m not, someone others would probably feel more comfortable around, I have embraced my listening skills, rather than trying to overuse my voice. I now understand it’s okay to speak when I feel like it, rather than talking because others expect me to.

As a child, almost all my teachers told my parents I was too quiet, that I needed to participate more (that’s probably when I began to feel I wasn’t as awesome as everyone else seemed to be). And because of that, as a teacher of young kids, I never tell a student he or she needs to ‘come out of their shell’. They will discover their own voice, in their own time.

I remember being invited to a birthday party when I was about 10 years old. It was a sleep over, my first. And even though it should have been an exciting time, it actually brought out a tremendous amount of anxiety. Having to socialize and talk nonstop, tell secrets and giggle, was way too difficult for me. I never wanted to participate in that kind of gathering again. And I don’t think I ever did. Now, take me back to that time, but with the grown-up me, the person who now understands who I am, what I have to offer. I would have made the most of being an emotionally in-tune person. Also, time and again, it seems so many people are striving for what I, and many introverts, possess. Simply, quiet calmness. Someone who is balanced. A person who can interact with others when deemed necessary, even if it’s not always easy, but who is also comfortable being alone.

I suppose the article is simply bringing an introverts traits into the limelight, to our attention, so that we – well, not me – can be sure to understand the personalities of the quiet, or not so quiet, ones; the obvious introverts and the hidden kind, and make sure they are not overlooked but rather included, graciously.

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i’m the mother of a jerk!

IMG_0926one day my teenage son walked into my bedroom, and stated,

oh geez, mom. this girl is planning on asking me to a dance. but the thing is, she’s not my type, not someone i want to go with. so i have this plan. when she asks me during class, or wherever we are, surrounded by a ton of people I will say yes!

yes? i wonder.

yes, yes. but then when we are somewhere else, when no one else is around i will tell her no.

no? i say a bit too loud.

yes, no. he claims.

i stare at him. i don’t get it.

mom, it’s like this. I don’t want her to feel embarrassed by me saying no in front of everyone (‘ah, how sweet’, i think) but, I don’t want to go with her, so i will tell her the truth afterwards.

seriously?

it’s good, mom. it’s good.

you’d be a jerk! i say in defense of all girls being treating badly by dumb boys.

huh? no. no mom, no. he laughs. you see i have no idea when she might ask. she might even have it announced over the intercom, and you know, i want to look like a good guy, but then, well, i don’t want to go, so i will be nice about it when i tell her forget it. i’ll be kind. i’ll even smile, let her know it’s okay, that i am doing her a favor.

oh! my! god! i scream, even though my mother told me to never take God’s name in vain.

he laughs.

i try to explain how unreasonable, how jerky, how rude! his idea is.

it’ll be okay mom. trust me. she’ll be fine.

he saunters, nonchalantly out of my bedroom.

you’re a jerk! i yell after him, knowing he knows i’m a good mom, a responsible mom, and that sometimes words fly out without much effort.

he laughs.

i love you, too, mom, he shouts back.

not two minutes pass when he walks back into my room.

he’s laughing, jovially.

she just tweeted me, he begins. she straight out told me not to believe anything i’ve heard. she has no plans to ask me to the dance.

thank goodness, i say. so glad she won’t have to deal with your jerkiness, i add.

ah, mom, you’re funny.

funny or not, i realize that somewhere down the line, when teaching my son about being a good, honest person, and the importance of treating others with respect, he twisted it, most likely without intent, and assumed it was okay to do the wrong thing to make something right.

sigh.

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happy ending – a GBE2 prompt

IMG_1878he’s our son, our youngest, the athlete, the competitor, the boy who wants to be part of a team, especially a winning team, a kid who tries hard, but sometimes not hard enough

he played soccer, for what seems like forever, ran across the field, passed the ball, kicked the ball, head-bumped the ball, scored a goal, didn’t score a goal, he’d run fast, think quick, yell, cheer, challenge, and brood

he tried out for the high school soccer team, spent a month of his summer showing the coaches his stuff, put in his best effort, only to be told not this year, buddy, try again next time

when he wasn’t playing soccer he played little league baseball, in the outfield, at third, first, second, he wasn’t the best player, neither was he the worst, once or twice he suited up as catcher, and a few times his strong arm, his solid throw earned him a spot on the pitcher’s mount, where, oddly, he worried, felt displaced, didn’t like the attention, wasn’t successful, and his batting wasn’t always up to par, some of his fielding needed work, attitude needed changing

freshman year, he was granted a spot in the baseball class, not the team, just a class to work on his baseball skills, he worked hard, was disciplined, lifted weights, strengthened his body, mind, and soul

when it was time to try out, to officially play ball, he did his best, displayed his skills, didn’t let anything or anyone discourage his efforts

he waited,  a long drawn out week, of sleepless nights, concerned disappointments, intermixed with knowing he’d improved, had what it took, that his skills were solid, to the point, right on

he stood in front of the coaches office, scanned the names, looking for his

bradford

he grunted, he yelped, he high-fived

he earned his happy ending

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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.