kids

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Walk 38

Walking is what we do best. Me. And my three.

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Roberto, Liz, and Brad

Well, me and Liz, for sure. Roberto occasionally. And Brad, not really. But on this day, this past Sunday, we walked. Together. Up some hills. And on the shore of Pacific Palisades. A beach town in California.

You see, I found this great book, 10,000 STEPS A DAY IN L.A. by Paul Haddad, so we decided to take ‘A Stroll for the Soul’.

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I parked up a hill, about half way, then we walked down the hill, turned left, and walked in the opposite direction of the beach. We headed to the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine. Oh, boy, what a beautiful, serene setting. You’d never know we were surrounded  by people people everywhere. All the greenery, the tall trees, blocked the outside activity, and provided the perfect spot to, seriously, self-reflect.

After balancing our minds, we walked back toward the beach, across Pacific Coast Highway, admiring the magnificent view. The ocean blue.

Nothing is better than walking while spending time with my kids. Kids who are not kids, but adults. Adults who enjoy the outside world. Like I do.

 

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#tb 5 years ago…

Bradford Ramon Antonio, age 11

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There he sleeps, that child of mine. I’m sure he’s dreaming about all the things he wants to do in his young life. His innocent life. His right-now life.

Sunrise to sunset, that kid is on-the-go either physically, or mentally, or (of course) both those things at once.

The minute he hops out of bed, he puts on his favorite baseball cap. Angels! At the same time his feet begin to shuffle. Swish! He slides his left foot across the wooden floor, kicking it straight out in front of him. While that foot dangles in the air he quickly raises his knee, and just as quick he stomps that foot back down. The other foot takes its turn and begins to also stamp. Now both feet are shuffling back and forth. He spins his body, grabs the brim of his cap and twirls it backward, then forward again in a rapid, smoothly-planned motion. His whole body is moving. His feet are gliding, stamping, and being raised high off the ground. The techno music in his head eventually stops, so then does his dancing.

He settles on the couch, waiting for a hot cup of tea. While he waits, his fingers, all ten of them, begin to intertwine. His hands move as if they are dancing. A hand dance. His arms shoot out as his hands continue to twirl, round and round. His arms twist around each other, like slithering snakes; his fingers continue to lace loosely together, then apart, and his arms maintain their own motions, to ensure that the fluidity of the dance is just right. The hand ballet stops when he reaches for the sugar-and-milk-filled cup of tea.

He’s a DJ. He uses the computer to spin a record, to jumble the original music in an interesting way. He adds voice overtones to create definition, character to the song. The techno music adds a certain flavor to the whole effect. He works it, over and over, in various ways. Both his hands are moving rapidly, spinning up, spinning down, spinning to the right, spinning to the left. Then his feet begin to shuffle. All his skills are joined together into one fantastic show. His motions don’t stop until the music does yet, his heart still sings. He knows his skills are working, working the crowd. He knows because they all scream for more.

So sleep well, my son, sleep well. Dream your dreams. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is another day you can move. Another day to perfect your real-life ambitions.

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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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apple

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Every morning one of Mrs. Berry’s students placed an apple on her desk, and every afternoon she threw it away because she wasn’t sure where the hands had been that held the apple.

By the end of his first trimester, Chad decided his 5th grade teacher needed help giving him straight A’s.

She was always telling him If you’d just focus more during lessons, you’d improve your scores. Blah. Blah. Blah. It was then, as he was walking home from school, holding his tattered bad-news report card in his tightly squeezed hand, that Chad would do just that. He’d focus more. Sure. Focus on some cool magical elixir that would entice Mrs. Berry to improve his grades, whether he earned them or not.

That’s when the apples began appearing on Mrs. Berry’s desk each morning. Chad never told her, or anyone for that matter, that it was he who gently placed the fruit upon her desk. No one needed to know that he had doctored the shiny apples, filling them with give this kid an A+ juice. He knew she was taking the apples with her to lunch, yet his grades didn’t change and neither did her teacher voice when reminding him to pay attention!

Oh, my. Who gave me this delicious chocolate-and-caramel-covered apple? she asked the class after a week of tossing the fruit. No one admitted anything. Especially not Chad.

During lunch break, while sitting with the other 5th grade teachers, Mrs Berry selfishly downed the dessert before anyone would ask her for a slice.

Hey, Chad! Great improvement on your math test today. See, staying on task will grant you rewards, she happily announced.

Ain’t that the truth, Chad smirked. He looked over his test and could see that most of his answers were incorrect, yet Mrs. Berry had written a bright red A+ across the top of the paper.