family

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Un-coloring My World

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Painting walls in one’s home is big news these days. Be brave, brighten your rooms with color, color, color.

Well, now, I’ve been coloring-up my rooms for years and years. Not just one overall color throughout. But each room was given a personality. Walls dedicated to the person living in each space. Roberto danced in Florescent Green. Brad played Legos in Light Grey. Liz had friends spend the night in Orangesicle Orange. Rudy and I chilled in Olive Green. The living room, a light turquoise blue, matching a very small teapot, wrapped anyone sitting there with comfort. And the kitchen felt happy, alive in Buttercup Yellow.

Everywhere I looked the color spoke to me. Reminded me of milestones, friendships, hardships, laughter, serenity, and so much more. Life happened amongst those walls.

I loved the color. Until I was over it. 

So, I decided to paint every room in my house white.

Not a new concept, I know. I see those walls in buildings, in magazines, on TV.

White. White. White.

And I love it.

I’ve been coating the walls with Crystal Cut white. Soothing. Relaxing. Vibrant.

And the stories live on. Nothing has changed. Color still makes its claim. Among the white it speaks quietly or loudly, depending on its mood.

 

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#tb, 4th of July, 2012

american flag

Independence Day.
A day to celebrate our freedom.
And to lavish the day with reds, whites, and blues.
To come together, with family and friends, spending the day relaxing, chatting, and eating.

A tradition.

A tradition our family has always embraced, year after year. Rudy at the helm, taking charge, making sure the constant rhythm of music was vibrating throughout, adding to the festive environment, enhancing energy, and conversations. He especially made sure bellies were full with good home-cooked food, and plenty of drink.

Yester-Year, on a particular 4th of July, our family was missing that tradition.

And it felt ironic.

roberto july 4 2012

I did chat, eat, and drink with Roberto, and laughed loudly as he ran around the pool waving the American flag, before he had to head off to his afternoon shift in a non-American restaurant. Brad had spent the night with a friend, then had made plans to celebrate with said friend on that 4th day. And Liz, well, she was socializing, kicking back in London, preparing for her long flight home.

There I sat. Independently. In California.
And there Rudy sat. Independently. In Arkansas.
Each of us doing our own thing.
I was reading, writing, and lazily watching TV.
While he made himself a meal, and lounged on the couch, entertained by sports.

Independence Day.
Yester-Year.
Was.
A day to be independent.
To lavish the day with self.
To be alone.
To gather one’s thoughts. And listen as fireworks explode skyward.
A reminder of our county’s independence.
Independence of being free.

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Brick House

If your foundation is faulty, lacking attention, and unable to hold up the building blocks of a Brick House, hearty winds just might blow it away. If there are cracks in your foundation you can surmise that your home may simply waver, waiting for you to put some effort into fixing, repairing, willing your home to maintain its stance. But, the best house of all is one with a foundation that began as a solid, durable, unbreakable commitment, knowing you, and everyone else in your Brick House, will do everything to hold it in place, and that nothing can destroy what you’ve worked so hard to accomplish.

My family is my Brick House. At times it’s been faulty, some days our house has wavered, but mostly my family and I have been living on solid ground.  ∏

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I am the Mother of a Gay Son

rainbow flagI heard my 7 year old child quietly crying. Roberto was wiping the tears from watery eyes. I wondered if I should say something. “Give him a minute,” I told myself. “Let him have a moment. Everyone needs a moment to work through their grief.”

As his breathing slowed and tears were blotted dry, I asked Roberto, a sweet innocent person, “Are you okay? You seem very sad.” Deep breaths, interrupted with quick short sniffles. “Heave-ho,” his chest physically vibrated.
“Some kids said I was gay.”
“Gay? Doesn’t gay mean happy?” I asked, allowing him to control the conversation.
“Yes, I think so, but… they meant boys-like-boys, girls-like-girls gay.”
“Why did they say that to you, why do you think?” I wondered.
“I don’t know. One of them said that the color of my eyes were not like theirs so I must be gay.”
The adult in me simply said, “They are just uneducated, uninformed”. The feeling miffed person said, “Ignore them.”

Gaily, life went on. Mostly, Roberto enjoyed happy days, with many days trying to figure out what life means – only in a way a young child is capable of.

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I heard my 12 year old quietly crying. Roberto, almost a teen, was wiping the tears from watery eyes. I wondered if I should say something. “Give him a minute,” I told myself. “Let him have a moment. Everyone needs a moment to work through their grief.”

As his breathing slowed and tears were blotted dry, I asked Roberto, not so small, not quite a grown person, “Are you okay? You seem very sad.” Deep breaths, interrupted with quick short sniffles. “Heave-ho,” his chest physically vibrated.
“Some kids said I was gay.”
Why did they say that to you, why do you think?” I wondered.
“I don’t know. Some of the kids think I am different. One day someone is my friend, the next day they don’t talk to me”.
“How does that make you feel?,” I questioned.
“I feel bad. I just want a friend I can trust, be myself with.”
The adult in me simply said, “Just be patient. Somewhere, a friend is waiting in the wings“. The feeling miffed person said, “Ignore them.”

Gaily, life went on. Mostly, Roberto enjoyed happy days, with many days trying to figure out what life means – only in a way a preteen is capable of.

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I heard my 17 year old quietly crying. Roberto was wiping the tears from watery eyes. I wondered if I should say something. “Give him a minute,” I told myself. “Let him have a moment. Everyone needs a moment to work through their grief.”

As his breathing slowed and tears were blotted dry, I asked Roberto, close to being an adult, “Are you okay? You seem very sad.” Deep breaths, interrupted with quick short sniffles. “Heave-ho,” his chest physically vibrated.

“I don’t want to ruin the dynamics of a nuclear family. I don’t want to disappoint anyone,” Roberto emotionally forced the words out of rather strong vocal cords.
“Why do you say that?” I soothingly asked, already knowing the answer.
“I am gay,” he stated, voice quivering. He fell to the floor, emotionally overwhelmed.
I knelt next to Roberto, told him to always be true, true to who he is.

Gaily, life went on. Mostly, Roberto enjoyed happy days, with many days trying to figure out what life means – only in a way a close to being an adult teen is capable of.

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I heard my adult son, laughing happily, content with who he is. Knowing his family supports him no matter what, a family who doesn’t judge him based on who he chooses as a partner, but rather a family who embraces his warmth, his kindness, his love, and his life, without conditions.

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19 is number one

We were standing at the front door of our This could be it! future home. The owner was expecting us. Around two in the afternoon. We were about five minutes early.

“So the deal is, if we like the house, we’ll squeeze each others hand. Agreed?” I reaffirmed with Rudy.
“Agreed,” he confirmed.

Knock. Knock. Went Rudy’s hand. Strong on one of the front double doors. Half circles on the top of each. Wooden slats separating four panes of glass, shaped like slices of pizza.

Whoosh! We could hear the pull of air as a tall gentleman opened the door. Wide. Greeting us. With a bright, shiny smile. He stepped aside. Gestured with his hand to come on in!

In we went. Smiles on our faces, too.

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We had only taken two or three, maybe four or five, steps into the entryway when, at the exact same time, Rudy and I squeezed each others hand. Tightly. Making sure we were remembering our agreed upon agreement.

Then we looked at each other. And smiled.

We knew. Right then. Only a few feet in, that this was the house we wanted. The house that would belong to us. For a long, long, long, long time.

Today marks 19 years living here. That feeling, the squeezing of hands, never wavering.

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poolside

pool

A house with a pool is a dream, I suppose for many. When looking for a new home, in general, lookie-loos consider a pool in the backyard a lap of luxury. I’d agree, but honestly, for Rudy and I, we just wanted a house to live in, to provide stability for our children. Just a simple house. Something cozy. That’s it. A glistening pool wasn’t our focus when looking at places to settle into.

So, to our surprise, the house where we immediately grabbed hold of each others hand, a secret sign that we had agreed on beforehand, a way to express our interest without saying a word, came to fruition only a few feet within the entryway of the ranch-style home. Both of us just knew without even having toured the place that this house was the one. Our feelings inter-mingled, tingled through our fingertips. And as we stepped into the living room, and the owner pulled back the curtains, there in front of us was a built-in pool, shining brightly through the large windows, set smack-dab in the middle of the backyard. A bonus. Something not looked for, yet there it was. Refreshing luxury to take a lap in.

Our kids were so excited about having a pool in their yard. They’d swim after school, on weekends, with friends, without friends, late at night, early in the day, when they should have been napping, or could have been doing homework. In other words, the pool was their life. Until it wasn’t. One day, after observing them slouching on the couch, on a warm summer afternoon, talking about how boring life is, I made the most obvious statement. “Go swimming.” And that’s when reality hit. “Nah,” the kids replied. So there the pool would sit, day after day, without playmates. So, in a sense, the idea of a pool is awesome. The reality of it is “Whatever.”

One day, the pool guy began the process of draining the water so that he could replace the burnt-out light. The unexpected result? The kids and I discovered a new fascination. An empty pool is pretty cool. And not only for us, but for our two cats as well. As the water level slowly went down, Cassandra curiously stepped down onto the first step, considering if she should take a sip of the chlorinated liquid. When the water was nearly gone, we decided to take a stroll into the depths of the plaster-covered cement. Amazing! Really. We sat in the pool, just feeling its vibe, the huge expanse of it.

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Later that evening, after the light was replaced, and the water began to fill again, I turned on said light, and we sat there, for a second time, inside the pool, amazed by the beauty of it all. The large hole in the ground, the old retro-looking walls, looking super bright, with the illumination of the newly installed light fixture, was worthy of our time. We talked, simply bonding. And then the light blinked off. Automatically.

The following morning, I went out to check the progress of the water level. Higher than the night before, but still low. I crawled into the pool again, this time with Skyler, who seemed to be as in awe as I was. Pools are awesome. Fun. Refreshing. Entertaining. And so on. Yet, now I know, that when the pool is empty, those things simply double in pleasure.

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man vs. cats

  IMG_0996Our cats came into our lives, unexpectedly, a few years ago. I was a bit sneaky about the idea of the fluffy twins, taking advantage of the fact that Rudy was living and working in Arkansas, when Brad first approached me with a photo of their newborn cuteness. After a lot of thought, seriously, quite a bit, because, well, Rudy is allergic to cats. But, since he was permanently positioned in another state it made sense that during his visits we could make sure the kitty-cats steered clear of him. In the end, I told the kids Sure. Let’s do it. Let’s get ourselves a few cats! And so we did.

The girls joined our household, fit right in with our lifestyle. Enjoying a sense of well-being and comfort. All was good.

Except when Rudy first found out about the fact that, like never before, we were entertaining a pair of pretty kitties, in his absence. He ranted. He grunted. And did so for weeks until he was left with nothing more to say. Nothing more to add to the many reasons we should not have cats. Realizing and considering that he was there and they were here. So, instead, he slowly, over time, began to adjust to Cassandra and Skyler. 

By the time he returned to California, living here, for the long haul, Rudy had begun to accept their presence.

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Feelings began to imprint.

Last night, Rudy quietly opened our bedroom door, not wanting to interrupt my much needed shut-eye and whispered, firmly, without a show of passion, and refusing to say Skyler’s name,

“That colored cat is sitting out there, by the front door.”

“Oh, ok,” I attempt, running a hand through my already messed-up hair. I know he’s telling me this because no-way-no-how is he going to pick her up, because, obviously his allergies will attack, big time. As I was walking down the hall, toward the front door, Rudy continued.

“I saw her sitting out there, way out at the end of the steps. She was just sitting there, staring at the front door, so I opened it, figuring she’d walk in, and go straight to Roberto’s room.”

Roberto’s room. The room with a door to the backyard. Their home within our home, I think to myself. I smiled, knowing how hard this task must have been for Rudy, yet he was doing it for me, because he knows how much I care about our sweet cats.

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“She walked to the door, then stopped. I guess she saw it was me and wasn’t sure if she could trust me.”

Probably, I think.

Out loud I say, “Yeah, she’s trying to figure out what you mean to her. It’s not like she doesn’t like you, but she hasn’t developed a relationship with you either.”

“I’m fine with that. She’s not my cat,” he confirms.

I reach down and pick Skyler up, wrap my arms around her multicolored body.

Rudy doesn’t know it, but his face gives him away. He’s curious about her. Finds interest in who she is, who her sister is, her twin who looks nothing like her.

He no longer feels angry or negative about them; yet, neither does he feel the need to grasp them and love them.

But, he does wonder about them.

And most importantly, he’s decided to fully accept them. Accept them in a way that works for him. By watching and observing. Without touching.