Category: Family (Page 11 of 16)

Olaia has this funny bit where she does this stupifyingly funny American accent in Spanish.  She’s got a gift, I tells ya, a gift of funny.   Her little "Yo no entiendo" never fails to crack me up.

Listen (mp3): Akcento Amerikano

By the time he was done, he had cake in his hair, ears, and down his back.  He beamed, eyes twinkling, with true happiness as we all sang happy birthday to him.  He knew we were adoring him, and the little munchkin ate it up, along with the cake.

It’s funny, Laura and I were reflecting on the night that Javier arrived.  We were up late watching Battlestar Galatica (great great show) and about half way through, Laura starting having contractions.  As with all pregnancies, you don’t know how much time you have, and this being our third child we could have easily had the little boy right there on the coffee table during the commercial break.  Laura, however, sci-fi chick that she is, sucked it up and said that it’d be fine, that we could finish Battlestar Galactica.  

"Are you sure?"  I asked.

"Yeah, I guess so."  

So little Javier, I just want to say on your 1st birthday, thanks for letting us watch our show.  You’re the best.   And Laura, you win the Sci-fi-chick-of-the year award.

I was just looking at my son’s Valentine’s card on my desk.   The little truck sticker that he had placed on it had fallen off.  I picked it up.  What a cute little manly truck.  I stuck it back on the construction paper between the two hearts, one pink and one orange.  To the right of the orange heart he had put a sticker of a helicopter and another small pink heart.  Below, Jaimito had drawn his family as stick figures.  Our bodies were rudimentary, but he had put extra emphasis on the faces, beaming smiling faces.

He had selected each element with care, I am sure.  Jaimito made me a card to communicate his love for me.  He also made sure that the card represented himself, hearts of love, his family, and a truck and a helicopter.

Boy, do I love that little boy.  I want to be just like him when I grow up.  It’s funny, but I remember the rush of first love, those days of your first Valentines.  You get older and those rushes fade.  One would wonder if they were supposed to fade, should I look for new love, hang on to the old, or just accept that first love, that young passionate love is long gone?

Well, folks, it ain’t over.  The rush comes back, and I think, comes back both stronger and steadier.  When Jaimito handed me his Valentine’s day card and said, "Here, Daddy, I made dis for you,"  I swept him up into my arms, crushing him to my breast, peppering his round cheeks with a thousand kisses, until he giggled with delight.  "Daddy, did you see the truck?"

"Yes, I love your truck." 

This is a gospel passage that Laura and I have been getting a kick out of lately.  I am the first son. 

Matthew 21,28-32.

What is your opinion? A man had two sons. He came to the first and said, ‘Son, go out and work in the vineyard today.’ He said in reply, ‘I will not,’ but afterwards he changed his mind and went. The man came to the other son and gave the same order. He said in reply, ‘Yes, sir,’ but did not go. Which of the two did his father’s will?" They answered, "The first." Jesus said to them, "Amen, I say to you, tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God before you. When John came to you in the way of righteousness, you did not believe him; but tax collectors and prostitutes did. Yet even when you saw that, you did not later change your minds and believe him.

"Jim, will you take out the trash?"

"No, I’m busy."  Laura goes off and does something else.  I think about it for a bit, and go take out the trash.

"Jim, a client is requesting a change on X Y or Z."

"Why do they want that?  That’s stupid.  They’re idiots.  They don’t know what they want.  I won’t do it.  I quit!"

Laura goes off and does something else.  I think about it for a bit, and make the change.

I’m such an idiot sometimes, but at least I go to the vineyard and get the job done.  Laura tells me I’m a loveable grouch. 

Now get thee, Jim, to the vineyard.

I sat down with Olaia last night to read her a book.  "Hmm, let’s see… what shall we read?"  I grabbed a collection from her bookshelf, flipped through the table of contents for something fun to read.  I read the titles aloud so that she may shout out when she heard something she’d like. 

"No.  No.  No," she answered to each of the selections.

"How about Encyclopedia Brown?  I used to read those when I was just a little older than you are now – when I was a little boy.  I always liked Encyclopedia Brown."

"Okay, Daddy, sounds good."

I began to read.  The story started with a little introduction to Encyclopedia Brown’s family.  Idaville was an idyllic little town where no crimes went unsolved.  Encyclopedia’s father was the chief of police.  He was very successful.  Little known to all, though, was the fact that his son Leroy "Encyclopedia" Brown was behind his father’s success.  His prodigious intellect had earned him his nickname.  It was a happy family, happy and successful and perfect. Dad was the chief of police and his son was the crime solving engine powering Idaville’s crime-free environment.

"Daddy, what does Encyclopedia Brown’s mommy do?" 

A funny little crooked smile crept onto my face.  "Well gosh, Olaia, that’s a mighty  good question."  Quick Jim, think fast.  What does his mommy do.  I am always unmasked by my insightful daughter.  She has this knack for cutting through pretense and slicing snip snap right to the incongruence of a matter.  Myself, I carry my load of 1970’s preconceptions and "common" sense.  I’m a child of the rising action of the feminist movement, with all its rancor and discord. 

"A woman’s place is in the home," I heard from one. 

"A woman’s place is in the office," came another. 

"Equal rights! Equal rights!" was screamed all around.  What was it all about, I had no idea.  Something was being birthed, but I knew not what.

Fast forward to present day.  Maureen Dowd laments the failures of feminism. "We pushed too hard to be like men.  We took the fun out of being women, and now there’s a backlash.  Now we’ve gone too far the other way, back to sex objects, back to finding husbands to complete us," she flirted in a recent interview with Tim Russert. "Maybe some things stuck, though."

How do I explain to Olaia what Encyclopedia’s mom did without demeaning her role?  After all, she loved her family, we just didn’t notice her. 

I didn’t notice her. 

"Olaia, back when this book was written, mommies didn’t work outside of the home as much.  People didn’t like for them to have jobs, so they took care of their families.  They would cook dinner, clean, and make sure everybody was okay.  Things have changed since then.  It was a long time ago, but now mommies and daddies work together in the house and outside of the house.  Mommies can do anything they want.  Does that make sense."

Olaia had noticed her, and now that I had explained myself and Encyclopedia’s unnamed mother, she was ready to go.  "Yes, okay, let’s read the book."

Of course it made sense to her.  What didn’t make sense was there was no mention of Encyclopedia’s mommy and what she did.  For all intents she didn’t exist except as an apron clad figure serving a casserole to Encyclopedia Brown and his dad.

Today’s beautiful "common" sense is the unassailable expectation that girls can do anything boys can do – anything they desire.  It’s as common and natural as anything could ever be, as real as conceived, born, nurtured, educated, tortured, and eventually fully grown.  Feminism and feminists should take heart.  Today’s girls and young ladies come of age with a new common sense, a new and entirely distinct awareness of what is possible and expected of them.

And my lovely lovely little girl, Olaia, what of her?  She gets to wear a dress if she wants too.  She gets to study what interests her.  She gets to be what she was meant to be without the limiting oligarchy of generations past. 

And my personal observation:  overlook her insight at your own peril.

I heard the pitter patter of little feet behind me. 

"Daddy… you will put us to bed."

"Huh?  What are you doing, Olaia?"  I turned to see Olaia staring me down and making strange gestures.

"I’m doing the Jedi mind thing."  She put her finger up to her forehead again and deepened her voice.  "Daddy, you will put us to bed."

"Hehe, yes, I will put you to bed now."

I placed Jaimito and Olaia in their beds and straightened out their sheets and covers. 

"There you go littlebug, all tucked in," I said.

"You are free to go about your business now."

"Oh, I’m sorry Doggies.  I forgot to feed you earlier.  Well, let’s get you some foodies," I bantered to our two beautiful mutts, Jessie and Billy.  I always talk to them, and I swear they understand.  I measured their servings and stepped out to the patio, the two of them dancing around me excited and impatient.  I spied their bowl, but it still had food in it from yesterday.  Hmm, what’s up with that, I thought?  Moving, undulating in the darkness of night, I spied something amiss, something sinister.

ANTS, big biting ones, were swarming over the food and around the bowls.  I reached in to see if I could it pick up to move it away or something.  Ouch ouch ouch, I got bit all over, stupid, argh, ouch, damn you, ants!  That’s gonna leave a mark.  I am continually fascinated with ants and how they collaborate, find, and devour, but this time they had gone too far.

Now, being who I am, I hate to waste perfectly good doggie food, but how to separate it from the ants without being eaten alive.  Jessie, impatient, circled her bowl looking for an opening.  The poor dear must have been so hungry.  Will you ever forgive me?  She decided to risk it and before I could shoo her away, she tried to take a bite and recoiled instantly.  Ooo, you bit my dog, you bit my dog.  For that YOU SHALL DIE! I practiced my action hero voice.  "One man, two dogs, a swarm of ants — this time it’s personal.  COMING SUMMER 2006"

Bring in the nukes.

I ran inside, grabbed a plastic seal-able container and quickly transferred the ant/food contents to it.  As I was fumbling around in the kitchen, Jessie and Billy were barking in their typical communicative fashion.  "Are you done yet?" 

"No," I answered. "Just a second, I’m almost done.  Hold your horses."  They’d wait 15 seconds patiently.  This is considered a great feat in the culture of the dogs, an eternity for their kind, an honor bestowed only upon the bearer of food. 

"Arf, arf arf.  Now?" 

"Just a second."

15 seconds of silence.

"Arf arf arf?  Now?"

"Almost there, just a sec."  I opened the door to the microwave, placed the angry angry swarming ants inside, and pressed start.  One and half minutes later I was met with the smell of fresh ant surprise, a mini lobster dish for my doggies, in fact a gourmet meal, not a dish served cold as proper revenge dictates, but a dish served hot, flavored with the succulent bodies of our former adversaries.

The microwave beeped completion, and Ms Jessie and Mr. Billy could no longer contain their gentile behavior.  All bets were off.

"Here I come," I said, as an explosion of frantic leaping and spinning ensued.  "Now you enjoy that.  I’m sorry for the inconvenience.  I’ll not let those ants get you again.  You just feast on their carcasses.  Buen provecho."

I picked Olaia up from school today, and this song came up in the rotation.  

"You don’t need eyes to see, you need vision," she parroted from the back seat.  "That’s right, Daddy, right?  You need vision to see, right?"

"Yeah, but the song is making a play on the word ‘vision,’ Olaia.  You see vision is like perspectiva in Spanish, I guess.  I don’t know.  Hmm, it’s like an outlook, a way of looking beyond what is there and seeing… er." I was struggling to define the word vision, trying to use vocabulary appropriate to a 7 year old.  It was tougher than I thought.  "Okay, vision, is like this. I have a vision of a world full of peace, where people are happy, where no one hurts, and where everyone finds love.  It’s like a dream, but it’s not just a dream.  It’s something you make with hard work, effort, and persistence.  Yet, it’s also like a dream, in the sense that it’s an ideal, something great, something beautiful.  I don’t know.  Does that make any sense?"

And then without any effort whatsoever, this little sage said, "Oh, so, vision is imagining things to become true."

"Exactly, little girl.  I couldn’t have said it any better."

And I really couldn’t have.

"I don’t wanna take a nap!  I not tired!" Jaimito whined.

"Yes you are, little boy.  You’re crying, and that means you’re tired.  When you cry, you’re telling me you’re tired."

 "I not tired.  I not tired.  I don’t wanna take a nap."  Jaimito looked desperate, how was he going to get out of this?  He did not want to take a nap.

"Little boy, sometimes your mommy and daddy know what’s good for you.  We think you’re tired.  We know you’re tired.  You’ll feel better after a nap, I promise."  But, Jaimito continued to wail like a banshee.  "Well, here’s the deal," we told him, "You get to stay in here whether you’re taking a nap or not.  You have to stay in mommy and daddy’s bed."

Soon, the wailing came to an end.  Curious, we peeked in and…

he’s passed out like a frat boy, complete with drool.  

So, we remember this day, when mommy and daddy were right, when mommy and daddy knew best, and we submit, your honor, exhibit #1 as evidence for future prosecution. 

I’m trapped under something heavy.  Won’t you please come rescue me.  

I’ve
got some posts brewing here, but I’ve not had time to finish
them.  Well, actually I haven’t had the time to start them either,
but let’s not mince words.

I’ve been working on a big website for a bread baking company in Puerto Rico (http://www.holsumpr.com/)
installing servers, doing a security audit, trying to keep abreast of
my volunteer work, maintaining the ongoing development of our software,
and trying to keep it all straight so we can build and launch a cool
Secret Startup Project(TM). It could be fun, fun and lucrative, fun,
lucrative, with ruthless efficiency.  Bah, I’d settle for fun, but
hey – if it’s lucrative and ruthlessly efficient, I’m not going to
complain.

In the meantime, here’s what keeps me motivated when I’m ready to light myself on fire and run screaming from the house/office.