All a man needs out of life is a place to sit ‘n’ spit in the fire.

Category: Family (Page 9 of 16)

Where I express my endless and boundless love for my kids through the stories of their youth. Someday you’ll all be old enough to be embarassed by these. Chuckle. I’d talk about Laura here, but she doesn’t like that… private she is.

That is the Sound of Ultimate Suffering

My son, Javier, is the noisiest, most temperamental, and hardest to handle of all of our children. He yells. He’s impatient. He gets into everything. He is exceedingly unsatisfied with his lot in life, discontented with all that is around him. But I love him. I love him when he throws a tantrum. I love him when he is at his most desperate.

The other day, we were readying ourselves to go to the park to play. I was alone with Jaimito and Javier. I got them ready, toys in hand, and opened the front gate. As we were ambling down the driveway, Billy started whining. "Oh please take me, oh please take me… please please please." came his plaintive barks. You see, I speak dog. I understand him completely in his native language.

"Sigh," I turned to my children, "Javier, stay right here. Daddy is going to put Billy in his house so he doesn’t whine the whole time we are in the park. Jaimito watch your brother, don’t let him go into the street."

"Okay, Daddy," said Javier.

"Okay, Daddy," said Jaimito.

Two seconds, almost literally, was all it took to put Billy in his house. From outside, I heard a cry, a desperate cry, a wail. Jaimito was saying, "Javier, come back, come back." But his pleas were soon drowned out by the sound of ultimate desperation.

I dashed out the front door. From the sound of the Doppler shift, I could tell Javier was moving at great speed and was by this time, far far away. I raced down the street, a block away, to see my little boy chasing his ball that had rolled down the hill. He had already seized it by the time I arrived. My first thought was, boy, is that kid fast for a two year old. Yikes. I could hardly keep up. But he was so desperate. He thought his ball was gone, and I swear his heart nearly broke. His sobbed to me, voice cracking, "Daddy – my ball – my ball was falling. It went down da’ hill. My ball – my ball – my ball."

His shortsighted attention to his ball, his lack of forethought of consequences, his folly, all mashed up together into a beautiful mess. I cracked a smile.

"It’s okay, little man. Daddy’s here now. We have your ball. You can’t chase it like that though. Next time, call Daddy. Say, ‘Daddy, my ball went down the hill’ and I’ll go get it. You could be hurt by a car. A car could run you over. Let Daddy get the ball. And Jaimito, next time, grab him. Don’t let him run in the street like that. Don’t just stand there. Grab your brother."

"Okay, Daddy," said Javier.

"Okay, Daddy," said Jaimito.

Now, let’s go to the park.

I reflected on this after, and I am convinced that it is when we see such sincere desperation, that we come to know and love more fully. I saw Javier in his purest form, no pretense, no forethought. I saw him at his most human.

And it makes him even more lovely to me.

Javier and the You-mama

I was building a rack mount pizza box server (1-U), and I needed some mounting screws for the fans. "Javier, want to go the store with Daddy?"

"Oh!!!! I get my shoes." And off he ran to get his shoes. "Oh Daddy, we go the the store. Yeay! Here are my shoes, Daddy. Here are my Diego shoes."

"All right, little man, let’s go." I strapped on his little sandals and opened the front gate to our house. He bounded out, dancing down the sidewalk towards the Chevy Lumina. He stopped, paused.

"Daddy, we go in da You-mama?" That was the first time he had called the car by its model. You-mama. I was so tickled, I busted up laughing at the cute sound of You-mama. He thought he had said something funny, so he repeated it and smiled. "Da You-mama!"

And off we went. "Daddy, we go the bike store?" I usually take him with me to the bike store and he tries out all the little bikes.

"No, Javier, not this time, we’re going to the hardware store to buy screws. Tornillos. Can you say that? Tornillos."

"nee-yoes," he repeated carefully.

"Screws – tornillos." I said again.

"Scqews – nee-yoes," Javier said with a grin.

"Yeah, we’re going to get some screws for the computer, not the bicycle."

"Not the bicycle? Oh."

"Hey Javier? Say Lumina."

"You-mama."

Thirteen Years!? How can it be Thirteen Years!?

Laura and I celebrated our thirteenth wedding anniversary this Monday. Actually we celebrated it on Tuesday, because that was our date visiting a coffee farm, or rather a collective of coffee farms and a processing facility. Here’s a pic:

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Those rows in the distance are coffee plants.  Breathtaking how beautiful it was up there in the mountains in Ciales, Puerto Rico.  I spit on the city, ptooie, I’m moving here.

And here’s our little campecino farmer guy delivering his load of fruit for the day.

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Look, it’s the Puerto Rican Juan Valdez, maybe here he’d be Juan Sanchez.

Guy really fit the part, is all I’m sayin’.

The next one is of the little coffee plant that grows next to the processing facility. The manager joked that they use it to gauge the ripeness of the fields. It’s like their little ripeness trigger plant or something.

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Those are coffee beans. The flesh is juicy and somewhat sweet. I popped one in my mouth and tasted it. It was like a cherry with a hint of tartness and no coffee-like flavor. In fact, the coffee flavor comes from the roasting. This fruit, unroasted and ripe, would make a great pie. Seriously. I’ve got to try it at some point. I’d probably just follow my mom’s recipe for cherry pie.

Here’s the last pic. This one is from one of the farms on the mountain-side. These are small young coffee plants. They will yield fruit after two years, and are considered mature after four. If well cared for, the plants will continue to bear for many years. The farmer joking told us, "… and if they are not well cared for, they die quickly."

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Coffee plants don’t like too much sun. They don’t like too much shade. They like to be up high, not down low. Do they seem fussy to you? Many times coffee in Puerto Rico is planted next to the plantain or orange or lemon trees. The neighboring vegetation helps regulate the sunlight.

I liked the scene above because the whole high country was frothing with hazy mist, like big steaming cups of hot bubbly java.

mmmmm.

For Immediate Release:

Javier Ignacio O’Malley Gorbea gladly began the journey to toilet self sufficiency this past week. Javier, third born of four, has awakened each morning for the past few mornings wishing to go "pee pee" and "caca" in the toilet.

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"Daddy, Mommy go pee pee in da toilet?"

"Yes, Javier, Mommy goes pee pee in the toilet."

Javier smiled, tickled by this little piece of secret trivia. "Mommy goes caca in da toilet," he declared, extrapolating upon known data, quite a valid hypothesis, if you ask me.

"Yes, Javier, Mommy goes caca in the toilet too." We both chuckled at our scatological observation.  "Daddy goes caca and pee pee in the toilet too. Olaia, Jaimito… everybody, all the big people go in the toilet. Asier is a little boy, so he doesn’t go in the toilet."

Javier smiled, happy to be included among the big self sufficient pee pee and caca goers. "I go pee pee caca in da toilet!"

Babies Come From Sex

"Daddy, where was that picture taken?" asked Jaimito looking at a wedding picture of Laura and me.

"That picture was taken in Old San Juan, El Viejo San Juan, here in Puerto Rico, Jaimito."

"Oh." 

Olaia, who was brushing her hair in front of our mirror, asked, "Daddy, are you and Mommy happy that you have kids?"

"Oh, of course, Olaia.  We had you, decided it was so much fun that we had Jaimito.  Two wasn’t enough fun, so we had Javier.  And it was more fun.  Then we said, ‘Well, I think that’s sufficient fun.  We should stop.’  And along came Asier."

Jaimito and Olaia giggled.

"Daddy, somebody in my class said that babies come from S-E-X.  Is that true?"  She had spelled it out like it was some taboo word.  I was a little taken aback.  These things come from nowhere.  She has been in a summer camp these past couple of weeks with older kids from the fifth grade.  It would stand to reason that she is being exposed to the thoughts of older niños. 

"Yes, that is correct, Olaia.  Babies come from sex."

"Really!?"  Her eyes got wide.

"Yes, Olaia.  There’s nothing wrong with it.  It’s how you got here.  But you don’t know what it is, do you?  I don’t think the kids in your class know either."

"Um, no."

"Well, we’ll talk about it when you’re a little older.  It’s okay, when you feel like you want to know something, just ask.  There’s nothing wrong with it, though."

"Okay, Daddy."

We climbed into the car and pulled out to go to camp.  Olaia had been thinking about this, though, her little brain hadn’t let go of the discussion.  It was rolling around in there, bouncing and tumbling about. 

"Daddy, we were playing the game LIFE at the camp, and I had a boy and girl.  One kid wanted to get to be a grandparent.  That’s how you win the game.  Anyway, that’s when they started talking about S-E-X."  And she spelled it out again.

"Olaia, you don’t have to spell it out.  It’s not a bad word.  There’s nothing wrong with it."

"I just don’t want to say it.  It makes me uncomfortable."

"It shouldn’t."

"Well, I just don’t want to say it."

"Hehe, you know Olaia, without that word you wouldn’t be here."

"That is not true, Daddy.  It’s not the word, it’s what the word represents!"

"You are too smart, little girl.  That is absolutely right.  Wow! What a smartie." 

Once again, that little girl and her precision are after my heart… no have sunk deep into my heart, tied it up, seized it and made it her own.

*I just got off the phone with my smart ass academic wife, Laura (attending her sister’s 40th birthday in Rhode Island).  After recounting the story, her reaction was this:

"Well, of course – it is well understood that bi-lingual children are much more advanced in the abstractions of language, that is, they can recognize concepts apart from the words they represent at a much earlier age."

Straight Up

We went to an open house this evening. In preparation, Laura sprayed Javier (age 2 and 3 months) with a bit of his perfume, a traditional gift of Los Tres Reyes. Javier came in proudly displaying his arms for me to smell.

"Oooo Javier," I took a good whiff. "That smells great. What perfume is it?"

"Mine," he declared.

Later, as we were settling into the cars to head out, we realized we were missing a certain little slowpoke boy.

"Jaimito, why are you taking so long," I hollered into the house attempting flush him out.

He threw up his hands in exasperation, "I don’t know!"

I haven’t laughed like that in ages. *sniff*

Javier Loves ‘Meemo

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Little Mr. Javier Ignacio is talking up a storm, so I’ll take a moment to capture the specifics.

Meemo = Jaimito. There is a love hate/relationship here. Javier doesn’t want to spend more than five seconds out of the light of his bigger brother. Yet he’s always crying and yelling about something. His attempts to bully his bigger brother sometimes don’t turn out the way he desires.  He desires control.  He must control his bigger brother in every way.  He comes to me crying in frustration, "’Meemo! ‘Meemo!"

"What little boy? What did ‘Meemo do?"

"’Meemo… ‘Meemo – hit me."

"’Meemo, hit you?"

"Yeah."

"Jaimito, did you hit Javier?" But before Jaimito can answer, Javier is off to torment him some more. I see what’s going on here, Javier, jumping and pulling and crashing into his older brother, and when it gets too rough, he comes wailing to me.

Laura’s Priorities

Laura had a meeting with a client this morning. I stayed at home to look after the kids. Since she was going to be out anyway, I asked her to pick up some things at the store.

"I need some Splenda. We need eggs, the boys need bananas – oh and we need lunch meat. Don’t forget we’re out of toilet paper too." The toilet paper was, of course, mostly required by my dear wife. Heaven knows why you people of the feminine persuasion consume so much of the stuff. Baffles the mind. I sometimes ponder aloud about a post-apocalyptic future without toilet paper, napkins, or paper towels. I watch her face drain of blood. Frankly, I think modern civilization owes its bounty to woman and disposable paper cleaning products. At least that’s what I say publicly. Privately I mock you.

But I digress.

"Okay," and off she went to her little meeting.

Around lunch my beloved returned to her brood, shopping complete. Splenda? Check. Eggs? Check. Bananas, lunch meat? Check and check.

"Hon, where’s the toilet paper?"

"Oh, I knew I forgot something. I was thinking that I had to get your Splenda, the boys bananas, and lunch meat. Sigh."

"How come you didn’t call me when you were in the store. I should have made a list. I’m sorry you forgot your thing, my dear. Isn’t that just ironic or something. You love your family so much that you’ve forgotten the ONE thing you needed."

"Yeah, I was thinking about what everyone else needed, I forgot the toilet paper."

"Funny but sad. I’ll make it up to you, I promise."

Fist raised to the heavens: As God is my witness you shall never go without toilet paper again!

You Drink the Milk You Have, Not the Milk You Wish You Had

Laura: And now, nice big glasses of milk for everyone.

Jim: Yeah, except mine is warm.

Laura: I’ll put some ice cubes in it for you, dear.

Jim: Oh yeah, then I’ll have watered down cold semi-milk.

Laura: Well, that’s the milk you have.

Jim: Okay, Ms "You drink the milk you have, not the milk you wish you had" Rumsfeld. You and Rummy should get together.

Laura: At least I’m not trivializing going to war. Let’s get some perspective here.

Jim: Touché, my dear.

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